Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [59]
Weeks later, I sat perfectly still on a wrought-iron kitchen chair cushioned in pink vinyl as Nonno cut my hair in the backyard. Minutes before, I’d been standing on the same chair to strain the tomatoes at the stove. Clippings of wavy dark brown hair fell in the dishcloth on my lap.
The kitchen window was open. My mother and grandmother were bickering so loudly as they prepared the Sunday meal that I didn’t even try to talk to Nonno. My five-year-old sister, Marie, was on the patio, lost in her pretend world, puffing on a pencil. I wondered if my sister would get lead poisoning smoking those make-believe cigarettes and when she would have to strain the tomatoes. But my musings about Marie’s health and the inequities of chores were interrupted by something I heard my mother say.
“Ma, come on. You can’t still be getting nightmares. I mean, enough is enough. That was sixty years ago!”
My grandmother getting nightmares? She was the toughest person I knew. I noticed that my grandfather was paying attention as well.
“Be quiet! Forget I said it. Just give me the spatula,” Nanny blurted.
Nonno finished cutting, and I got up, careful not to let any of the hair fall from the dishcloth. I went to the towering ash tree, the one that no one, including my big, towering father, could get his arms around, and scattered my hair all along the base. My grandfather had taught me that birds would use the hair in their nests. The first time I found a nest with my hair in it, I didn’t miss my long hair anymore.
At dinner, we made it through a couple of courses to the fruit without a blowup, but there was tension in the air. My mother and grandmother were still aggravated with each other.
“Looka,” said Nonno, picking up a discarded tangerine peel. “You want perfume?” He held the peel close to my neck and squeezed it between his finger, letting loose a spray of tangerine essence.
“Neat!” I was so excited I picked up a peel and squirted my mother.
“Stop that. Go get the milk and sugar.”
“No fair. I got the fruit.” I pointed to my older brother. “Make Michael get dessert.”
My brother gave me a Three Stooges noogie on the head.
“Mom! He’s teasing me!”
When I calmed down, my grandfather pointed to the sugar bowl, holding a cookie out of my reach. “Zucchero.”
“Zucchero,” I proudly pronounced.
“Bene.” Nonno handed me the cookie.
“Occhi.”
“Occhi,” I said, pulling my eyes sideways, cracking up my little sister.
“Stop that. Your eyes will stay that way!” reprimanded Nanny sharply. It was clear that whatever my grandmother was holding in was about to come out.
“And you!” she shouted, pointing at my grandfather. “Anna doesn’t need to learn Italian. She needs to learn her times tables!” Nanny turned to my brother, sister, and me. “You think you’d have a meal like this in Italy? You’d eat misery, that’s what you would eat! My father and mother suffered so we could live well here. It was all worth it. All of it!”
As soon as my grandmother’s back was turned, Nonno poured a little wine into Michael’s and my Howdy Doody cups.
“Come on, do your homework and maybe we’ll play Pokerino later.” My mother sounded both exasperated and tired.
For my part, I wondered if I would ever understand—or like—my grandmother.
PART FIVE
NEW YORK, NEW YORK 1905–1907
SIXTEEN
Giovanna’s laughter was so loud and hard, the baby kicked her in protest. Rubbing her hand over her growing belly, she laughed and whispered, “Scusi.” When she had realized five months ago that she was pregnant, it was the first time since Nunzio’s death that she truly felt happiness.
Giovanna and Rocco were two of hundreds