Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [85]
“You cut the tits off the lemons…the barrels would go into rock salt…”
“Remember Mamma would say, ‘Don’t let Uncle Lorenzo buy the lemons! He’s an artist. He always picks the lemons that look good, not the ones with the thin skins that you need.’”
Nanny actually chuckled at the memory, but I began to tune out. I was plotting my next move, because although I’d gotten a few answers, I ended up with more questions.
PART SEVEN
SCILLA, ITALY AUGUST–DECEMBER 1908
TWENTY-THREE
Returning from the mountains, Angelina jumped down from her grandfather’s shoulders and ran through the door of her grandparents’ house in Scilla.
“Domenico, she’ll soon bleat like a goat!” chided Concetta.
“My American granddaughter needs fresh milk!” he said proudly, leaving the milk and cheese on the table. Domenico was enraptured with Angelina. Her complexion and hair were far darker than anyone in the family, and he treated her like an exotic jewel.
Giovanna and Angelina had arrived in Scilla three weeks before. For the final leg of their journey, Cousin Pasquale had picked them up by boat from Reggio. As they sailed north past the beach of Marina Grande, turning the corner around the castle into the Chianalea, Giovanna had to stop herself from diving in and swimming to her parents, who waited on the dock.
Giovanna’s initial euphoria over being back in Scilla was replaced by torrents of tears. Her mother’s presence allowed her to be a vulnerable child, and she didn’t leave her side. Days later, when the sobbing stopped, melancholy set in. Everywhere she looked evoked memories, and always those memories included Nunzio. Her sadness was complicated by the guilt she felt for only thinking of Nunzio. It was days before it occurred to her that Rocco, too, came from Scilla. She forced herself to walk to the address where he said he grew up. The tiny stone house stared back at her, as foreign and impenetrable as her husband.
Nunzio’s family, including his mother, Zia Marianna, all lived within a few feet of her own mother’s house, and his family was with them each day. Angelina particularly liked playing with the children of Nunzio’s sister, Fortunata. The girls treated her like a porcelain doll and giggled when Angelina spoke in an Italian that had been bastardized by English. Fortunata’s twelve-year-old boy, Antonio, took Angelina fishing and taught her to swim. Antonio looked so much like his Uncle Nunzio that at first Giovanna found it unnerving; he didn’t have Nunzio’s red hair, but he had his handsome face and tall, thin build. He also had his uncle’s curiosity. After a while, Giovanna not only took comfort in the boy’s presence but fantasized that Antonio would marry Angelina and her grandchildren would have Nunzio’s blood.
“How beautiful, Nonna!” squealed Angelina, running her fingers over the embroidered flowers on the white dress.
“Let’s try it on,” said Concetta, slipping the dress over her granddaughter’s head. “There. You’re going to be the prettiest girl at the feast!”
“Will there really be fire in the sky, Nonna? That’s what Nonno said.”
“For once your Nonno isn’t telling stories!”
“Thank you, Mamma,” whispered Giovanna to her mother. There were times in New York that Giovanna thought she would never see another proper Feast of Saint Rocco, the patron saint of Scilla. But tonight she would walk in the procession with her daughter, and, as usual, her father would be one of the men to shoulder the statue of Saint Rocco through the streets.
“Look at Nonno!” pointed Angelina, giggling. Her grandfather came down the stairs in his blue shirt and red neck scarf.
“You’re getting too old to carry the statue, Domenico,” chided Concetta.
“Too old! Who carries our granddaughter each day on his shoulders?!” he said, tickling Angelina.
At the church, Domenico went with the men to retrieve the ten-foot statue for the procession. It was to be carried, as it had been for more than a hundred years, from the church, through