The Fortunate Pilgrim (10 page)

Octavia won. First she switched jobs and became a sewing teacher for the Melody Corporation, an organization promoting the sale of sewing machines. Octavia gave the free lessons that went with each purchase. The pay was three dollars a week less than she had been getting, but there would be promotions. Then, too, she could sew dresses for her mother and Baby Lena right at work. This last persuaded Lucia Santa. That was one victory.

Vinnie had become very thin during the summer. The mother worried, and so did her daughter. One day Octavia took her three little brothers to the free dental clinic at the Hudson Guild Settlement House. Earlier she had seen a sign saying that applications were open for the Herald Tribune Fresh Air Fund, which sent children to summer camp for two weeks or to special country homes. She had entered Vinnie’s name. That was before the job with the
Panettiere.

Now she broached the subject with her mother. Vinnie would only lose two weeks’ pay. He would have to leave the job when school opened in the fall anyway. Here was an opportunity for him to spend two weeks in the country with a private farm family, all expenses paid. The mother protested, not because of the money, but because she could not grasp the basic principle that a city child ought to spend a few weeks in the fresh country air. Herself a peasant, she could not believe this. Also she found it hard to believe that a strange couple would agree to take an unknown child into their home for two weeks without making him work or earn his keep. When Octavia explained that people received a small payment, she understood. It must be a good sum.

Finally Lucia Santa consented. Gino would take Vincent’s place in the bakery for two weeks. Vinnie was given a letter he could mail so that if he did not like it, Octavia would come and get him. Then Vincent didn’t want to go. He was terrified of having to live with strange people. But Octavia became so angry and close to tears that he went.

Gino ruined the family reputation for industry and reliability working for the
Panettiere.
After a bread delivery he would not return for hours. He came late and left early. He threw flour sacks down the cellar stairs and dragged them up, ripping the bags, spilling the flour. He ate tons of pizza and lemon ice. Yet no one could be angry with him. The
Panettiere
merely informed the mother that Gino would not be an acceptable substitute for Vincenzo next summer and they both laughed, which made Octavia furious. God forbid, if Vinnie did what they were laughing at, the mother would beat him black and blue.

Octavia had her reward. Suddenly it was the end of summer, school was only a week away, and Vinnie came home. The change was astonishing. He had a new suitcase of shining brown leather. He wore new white flannel trousers, a white shirt, a blue tie, and a blue jacket. His face was tanned and full. He was at least an inch taller. He was quite the man of the world when the social workers dropped him off in a cab they had taken from Grand Central Station.

That night the Angeluzzi-Corbo family went indoors early. When Vinnie told them all about the country, Gino and Sal were wide-eyed, and even Baby Lena seemed to be listening.

The country was a place without brick or pavement. The streets were made of dirt; apples, small and green, hung on trees all around. Raspberries grew on bushes wherever you went. You just ate everything when you felt like it. The country was a small white house made of wood, and the nights were so cold you had to use blankets. Everybody had a car because there were no subways or trolley cars. The mother was unimpressed. She had lived in the country. But Gino was stunned at the thought of what he had missed.

Then Vincent showed them his pajamas. He was the first one in the family to own a pair. They were yellow and black, and he had picked them out himself. The mother said, “But you sleep in these?” In winter everyone slept with heavy under-wear and a knitted sweater of coarse wool. In hot weather there were BVDs. Pajamas were for the Chinese.

“But why did these people buy you all these clothes?” she asked. “Do they get that much money from the
Funda
?”

“No,” Vinnie said proudly, “they like me. They want me back next year and they said I could bring Gino too. I told them all about the family. They’re gonna write me letters and send me a Christmas present. So I’ll have to send one to them too.”

“So, they have no children?” the mother asked.

“No,” said Vincent.

Seeing him happy, Octavia said impulsively, “You won’t have to go back to the bakery, Vin. It’s only a week before school. He can go to hell.” Vinnie was delighted. They both looked toward Lucia Santa, but she smiled at them in agreement. Her face was thoughtful.

She was wondering. There were good people in the world, then, that made strange children happy. What kind of people were these? How safe they must be that they could squander love and money on a boy they had never seen and might never see again. Vaguely she sensed that outside her world was another as different as another planet. It was not a world that people like themselves could ever stay in. They entered by charity, and charity exhausted itself like a falling star, burned out. Ah, in Italy they eat the children of the poor alive, the rich, the fat landowners. But it was enough that for tonight her children were happy and had hope. She was content.

The summer ended badly for Octavia. Her boss, a portly, genial man, always very nice, called her into the office one evening.

“Miss Angeluzzi,” he said, “I’ve had my eye on you. You are a fine teacher. The women who buy their machines and get their lessons from you are very happy with you. And they are very happy with their machines. And that is the rub, my dear girl.”

Octavia was bewildered. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“Well, you’re young, you’re obviously intelligent. That’s good, very good. And you have determination. You get a job done. I noticed one woman having trouble, a very stupid woman, that was easy to see, and you stuck with her until she got the technique. I won’t make any bones about it, you’re the best girl we ever had.” He patted her kindly on the arm, and she drew away. He smiled; her benighted Italian upbringing had betrayed her. A man only touched you for one reason.

Octavia’s mind was spinning with pleasure at his praise. She was a real teacher after all. She had been right all the time.

“But, Octavia,” the boss went on gently, “the Melody Sewing Machine Company is not in business to give sewing lessons. Or even to sell those inferior machines we advertise to make people come into the store. We want to sell the good machines. The best. Now that is what your job really is. I’m promoting you to saleslady, with a two-dollar raise. But you still do the same thing. Only be sociable.” Her eyes suddenly flashed and he smiled. “No, not with me. Be sociable and go out with these ladies you teach. Have coffee with them, get to be real friendly. You speak Italian, and that helps. Now, we don’t make money on the machines we advertise. Your job is to make these people switch to the better models. Understand? Just go on as you do now. Only be their friend, maybe even go out at night with them. Come to work a little late the next morning. If you sell good you make your own hours.” He started to pat her arm again, stopped and gave her an amused, fatherly smile.

Octavia left the office impressed, happy, tremendously flattered. Now she had a good job, a job with a future. That afternoon she went out with some of the young married women when they had their coffee break, and they talked with her so respectfully and with such deference that she felt very important, just like a real teacher. When she asked one of them how the machine worked, the woman said it was fine, adding, “Your boss tried to make me change to that fancy expensive one. But why should I? I’m just making dresses for my kids and myself and saving a little money.” Then Octavia saw clearly what her boss had asked her to do.

Once started on her job of selling, she had for the first time in her life to make a moral and intellectual decision that had nothing to do with her own personal relationships, her body, her sex, her family. She learned that to get ahead in the world meant despoiling her fellow human beings. She thought of her mother, a greenhorn, being cheated in such a fashion. If it had been a case of padding bills, overcharging to keep her job, she might have done so. But she still was so naÏve that she felt that to use her personality, her smiles, her words of friendship, was like using her body for material gain. Sometimes she tried, but she was not capable of the final bullying that was needed to clinch a sale.

In two weeks she was fired. The boss stood near the door as she went out. He shook his head at her, smiling with gentle pity, and said, “You’re a nice girl, Octavia.” But she did not smile in return. Her black eyes flashed angrily and she gave him a look of contempt. He could afford to understand her. He had lost nothing, his way of life had conquered. His was the easy amiability of the victor over the vanquished. She could not afford such tolerance.

Octavia began to lose her dreams. Now it seemed that the teachers she had loved had really tricked her with their compliments, with their urgings to find a better life, a life she could not afford to seek. They had sold her an ideal too expensive for her world.

Octavia went back to the garment shops. When she had a new job she told her mother the whole story; the mother listened silently. She was combing little Sal’s hair, holding the boy between her knees. She merely said, “People like you will never be rich.”

Octavia said angrily, “I wouldn’t do it to poor people. You wouldn’t do it, either. Put money in those lousy bastards’ pockets.”

Lucia Santa said wearily, “I’m too old for such tricks. And I have no talent. I don’t like people well enough to be nice to them, not even for money. But you, you’re young, you can learn. It’s not so hard. But no. My family, they read books, they go to movies, they think they can act like rich people. Have pride. Be poor. It’s nothing to me. I was poor, my children can be poor.” She pushed Sal toward the door.

Sal turned around and said, “Give me two cents for a soda, Ma.” The mother, who always gave him two cents, said angrily, “Didn’t you hear what I just told your sister? We are poor. Now
go.
#8221;

Sal looked at her gravely. She thought with irritation that all her children were too serious. Then Sal said, with the perfect reasonableness of a child, “If you never give me two cents will you be rich?” Octavia let out a shriek of laughter. The mother took her pocketbook and with a straight face gave Sal a silver nickel. Sal ran out of the house without another word.

Lucia Santa shrugged and smiled at Octavia. And yet, the mother thought, if I never gave my children two cents for soda, we might be rich. If I never gave them money for the moving pictures and baseballs, if I made meat only once a week and put on the electric light only when it was pitch dark. If I sent my children to work all year round instead of waiting till they finish high school, if I made them sew buttons on cards at night instead of reading and listening to the radio—who knows?

Thousands of houses had been bought on Long Island by miserly thrift. But it would never work with her family. They would all be miserable, including herself. And it was her fault. She had not rubbed their noses in poverty as a good mother should.

She had no illusions about human beings. They were not evil, not deliberately malicious. But money was God. Money could make you free. Money could give you hope. Money could make you safe. Renounce money? As well ask a man to give up his gun in the wild jungle.

Money guarded the lives of your children. Money lifted them out of darkness. Who has not wept for lack of money? Who has not wept for money? Who comes when money calls? Doctors, priests, dutiful sons.

Money was a new homeland. Lying awake at night thinking of the growing sums in the bank, Lucia Santa felt the sudden physical chilling sharpness mixed with fear that a prisoner feels when counting the days to stay behind walls.

And money was friends, respectful relatives. A new Jesus could never rise to reproach those with money.

Not to be rich, but to have money; to have money like a wall to put your back to, and then face the world.

Octavia knew her mother was thinking about money. Money for doctors, money for clothes, money for the oil stove, money for school books, money for Communion suits. Money for a house on Long Island, and maybe little Sal would be the one to go to college.

And yet, Octavia thought, with all this her mother was careless with money. She bought the best olive oil, expensive cheese, imported prosciutto. She served meat at least three times a week. And many times she called a doctor for the ailing children, where other families would give home remedies and wait for the fever or cold to pass. At Easter time each child had a new suit or dress.

But every few weeks there was five or ten dollars that the mother would give Octavia to put away. There was now over fifteen hundred dollars in the postal savings book that no one knew about except her and her mother. Octavia wondered what the magic signal would be that would make her mother decide to take one of the great steps in a family’s life and buy a house on Long Island.

IT WAS AUTUMN
, the children going to school, the nights too chilly to sit on the Avenue, and too much work to do to spend a whole evening in gossip. There were clothes to wash and press, shoes to shine, buttons to be sewn on cards to earn extra money. Oil stoves were brought out of hiding from backyard and cellar. The city changed its lights; the sun became a chilly yellow, the pavements and gutters steely gray. The buildings became taller and thinner and more distinct from each other. You could no longer smell the stone and tar. The air lost its summer solidity of dust and heat. White smoke from bull engines in the railroad yard smelled of nature. It was on the morning of such a day that Frank Corbo came home to his family.

CHAPTER
6

T
HE BIG CHILDREN
were off to school and work. Zia Louche was having a coffee with Lucia Santa. They both heard steps on the stairs and when the door opened, Frank Corbo, proud, but like a child waiting for a sign of welcome, stood for a few moments before entering the apartment. He looked well, his face brown and full, the eyes gentler. Lucia Santa said coolly, “Ah, you’re home finally.” But there was a note of welcome in her voice despite the resigned, unspoken protest. Zia Louche, being older, knew how to treat a returning husband. She said, “Ah, Frank, how well you look. How good it is to see you looking so well.” And she bustled around to get him a cup of coffee. Frank Corbo sat at the table opposite his wife.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. There was nothing either could say. What he had done had been impossible not to do. He could make no apology, no plea for understanding. She must accept it as she must accept sickness and death. And just as impossible was it that she could forgive him. She rose and went to the door where he had left his suitcase, as if he might not stay, and put it in the farthest corner of the room. Then she made him a quick omelet to go with his coffee.

When she bent her head over to serve him, he kissed her cheek and she accepted the kiss. It was an act of two people who have betrayed each other and with this kiss pledged themselves never to seek vengeance.

The two women and the man sat around drinking coffee. Zia Louche asked, “So how was it to go back on the land? Ah, work, real work is the best thing for a man. In Italy people work sixteen hours a day and never get sick. But you, you look very fine. The land agreed with you, then?”

The father nodded his head. He was polite. “It was good,” he said.

The two small children, Sal and Baby Lena, came down the corridor from the front room, where they had been playing. When they saw their father, they stopped and held each other’s hand. They stared at him.

Zia Louche said sharply, “Go kiss your father, go.” But the father was looking at the children with the same helpless vulnerable ghost of remembered love, a kind of wonder, remembrance mixed with wariness, of danger. When they came to him he bent and kissed their foreheads with an infinite gentleness. After he had done this his wife saw that stricken look in his eyes that had always troubled her so.

From his pocket the father took two small brown paper bags of candy and gave one to each of the children. They sat on the floor beside his chair, to open the bags and explore their gifts, brushing against the father’s legs like cats. He drank his coffee, seemingly unaware, making no gesture to touch them again.

Zia Louche left. When the door closed, the father took a roll of bills from his pocket, kept two for himself, and gave the rest to Lucia Santa. There was a hundred dollars.

She was overwhelmed. “Maybe you did the right thing. You look better. How do you feel, Frank?” Her voice was touched with concern, a little apprehensive.

“Better,” the husband said. “I was sick. I didn’t want to fight before I left, so I couldn’t tell you. The noise in the city, in the house. My head hurt all the time. Out there it was quiet. I worked hard all day and at night I slept without dreams. What man could want more?”

They were both silent. At last he said, as if in apology, “That’s not much money, but it’s everything I earned. I didn’t spend a penny on myself. My boss gave me the suitcase, the clothes, and my living. Better than staying here and washing your stairs.”

The mother said quietly, reassuringly, “It is a lot of money.” But she could not help adding, “Gino did your stairs for you.” She expected him to be angry. But Frank nodded his head and said in a reasonable, gentle voice, without irony, “Children must suffer for the sins of their fathers.”

He spoke like a churchgoer, a Christian, and, in confirmation of her suspicion, he took a red-edged holy book from the pocket of his jacket.

“You see this?” he asked. “This book has the truth and I can’t even read it. It’s in Italian and still I cannot read it. When Gino comes home from school he can read to me. The places are marked.”

The mother watched him intently. “You must be tired,” she said. “Go on to bed and sleep. I’ll send the children down to play in the street.”

When he had undressed and gone to bed she brought him a wet towel so that he could wipe his face and hands. He made no attempt to possess her or show any desire, and when he closed his eyes and sank back into the bed, it seemed as if he were closing his eyes against the world he had re-entered. Lucia Santa sensed something terribly wrong beneath the external health, the seeming good fortune. Looking down at him, she felt a strange pity for this man she had loved, who had been her husband so many years. As if in the course of every day, with each second, each minute, each day, she had spun out his fate, as if he were her prisoner dying in his cell. She was an innocent jailer, she had not pursued him, she had not condemned him, she had not sentenced him. But she could never let him escape. Lucia Santa sat on the bed and put her hand on his. He was already asleep. She sat so for a time, in some way glad that he would be sleeping safe in his bed when the rest of the family returned home, that Octavia, Larry, Gino, and Vinnie would see him for the first time defenseless, and so they could pity him.

That evening the family was at supper when the father rose and joined them. Octavia said “Hello” very coldly. Larry was warm in his greeting, saying with utmost sincerity, “You’re looking good, Pop. We missed you around here.”

Gino and Vincent gazed at him curiously. The father asked Gino, “Have you been good to your mother while I was away?” Gino nodded. The father sat down and then, as an afterthought, he took the two one-dollar bills from his pocket and without a word gave them to Gino and Vincent.

Octavia was angry that he had not asked Vincent if he had been good. She understood Vincent and knew that he had been hurt, that the dollar would not make up for this. It made her even angrier because she understood that her stepfather had not done this intentionally.

Suddenly the father made a statement that startled all of them.

“Some of my friends are visiting me tonight,” he said. He had never brought friends to the house. As if he knew or felt in some way that this was not really his home, that he could never be the chief of this family. He had not even brought card-playing cronies home for a glass of wine. Tonight Larry had to go to work, but Octavia decided to stay and meet these people, and give her mother support if they were in league with her stepfather against the family.

THE HOUSE WAS
neat, the dishes washed, fresh coffee on the stove, and store-bought cake on the table when the visitors came. They were Mr. and Mrs. John Colucci and their nine-year-old son, Job.

The Coluccis were young, in their early thirties. Mr. Colucci was thin and saturnine, with only a slight accent to show that he was not born in America. He wore a shirt, tie, and jacket. His wife was heavy and voluptuous, but not fat. She had no accent, but she seemed more Italian than her husband.

The whole Angeluzzi-Corbo family was surprised at the affection the Coluccis showed for Frank Corbo. They shook his hand warmly, inquired after him tenderly, said, “And this is your wife” in admiring tones, and “These are your children?” as if awe-struck and incredulous. They treated him as if he were a rich uncle, Lucia Santa thought. And she could see her husband reacting to their love. He was never demonstrative, but she could tell by his tone, by his respectful voice, in which for the first time since their marriage she heard that note which means that the speaker will bow to the wishes and opinions of his listeners. He was nervous, anxious to please. For the first time, he seemed to want people to think well of him. He poured the coffee himself.

They all sat around the great kitchen table. Octavia was charming in the best American style, with frequent smiles and a low sweet voice. The Coluccis had perfect manners. It was obvious that Mr. Colucci worked in an office and not with his hands. Mrs. Colucci spoke a refined Italian she could never have learned in Italy. They were not the children of mountain peasants but from the class of officials, of long generations of civil servants in Italy. Mr. Colucci was one of the few Italians whose family had emigrated to America for religious reasons instead of poverty. They were Protestants, and here in America they had formed a new sect, the Literal Baptist Church.

It had of course been the will of God that they met Frank Corbo. The farm owner was a first cousin of the Coluccis’ and they spent their summer vacation on the farm for the sake of their son’s health. Lucia Santa, a reconstructed peasant, raised her eyebrows at this repetition of a theme she had heard so much during the past summer. But, Mr. Colucci went on, what showed the hand of God was that they lived only a few blocks away from each other in the city, and every morning he passed the house of Frank Corbo. Mr. Colucci worked in the Runkel chocolate factory around the corner on 31st Street. Best of all, he was sure he could get Frank Corbo a job in the factory, but it was not for that they had come to visit.

No. Mr. Colucci had promised he would teach Frank Corbo to read and write. They would use the Bible as text. They had come tonight to keep their promise to visit him, to teach him, not only reading and writing, but about Jesus Christ. He would have to come to their class in the chapel of the Literal Baptist Church. Mr. Colucci wanted to make sure that Mrs. Lucia Santa Corbo would not object, would not be offended, if her husband came three nights a week to the chapel. He knew the respect, the consideration due an Italian wife and mother of children. He made no mention of religious objections, as if he knew there would be none.

Lucia Santa looked at him with a more kindly eye. She gathered that her husband would become a Protestant, but to her this was unimportant in every sense. He was a grown man. But the job at Runkel’s. He would bring home free chocolate and cocoa. The pay would not be insignificant. This was good fortune. Her husband could become a Jew if he wished. She gave not her assent, for that was not hers to give; the father could not be vetoed. She gave her blessing.

The tension relaxed, they talked about themselves, told each other what part of Italy they had come from, when and why they had left. The Coluccis did not smoke or drink. Religion was their life, for they believed in a living God. They told wondrous tales of the miracles their faith had wrought. At their meetings in chapel, believers fell to the ground in a trance and spoke in strange tongues; drunkards became total abstainers, evil men who regularly tattooed their wives and children black and blue became sweet as saints. Lucia Santa raised her eyebrows in polite astonishment. Mr. Colucci went on. “Sinners become God-like. I myself was a great sinner, in what manner I would rather not say.” His wife bowed her head for a moment, and when she looked up there was a small, grim smile on her lips. But Mr. Colucci had not said this boastingly. His was the manner of a man who had been the victim of a terrible misfortune and who after great suffering had been rescued through no virtue of his own.

Mr. Colucci went on to make himself clear. Even now, if Frank did not feel the faith, it did not matter. They were his friends, they would do everything to help him. Out of love for him and God. Faith would come in its own time.

The family was impressed, despite the words “love” and “God.” They had never met or even heard of a man like Mr. Colucci. Lucia Santa waited for some request, some trick that would exact payment for this good fortune. But there was none. She rose to make fresh coffee and bring out the
tarelle.
The father watched them all, impassive but seemingly content.

There could be no doubt. Everything was in harmony. Mr. Colucci sensed this and was carried away. He explained more about their religion. Everyone should love each other, no one should desire worldly goods. Shortly, Armageddon would come, God would wipe out the world, and only the chosen, the true believers, would be saved. Mrs. Colucci nodded her head. Her beautiful mouth, with its natural, dark, bloody red color, was tight with conviction, her magnificent dark eyes flashed around the room.

The children, sensing they had been lost track of, sneaked away. Gino, Vincent, and Job went down the corridor to the front room. Mr. Colucci went on. Lucia Santa listened with polite calm. These people were going to get her husband work.
Bravo.
They could have his prayers. All her children except Sal and Lena had already made their Communion and Confirmation in the Catholic Church, but she had done this as she dressed them in new clothes on Easter Sunday, as part of a primitive social rite. She herself had long ceased to think of God except to automatically curse his name for some misfortune. There was no question; when she died she would prudently take the last rites of her church. But now she did not go to Mass even for Christmas or Easter.

Octavia was more impressed. She was young and a belief in goodness and a desire to do good works inspired respect in her. She wished she were as beautiful as Mrs. Colucci and she thought for a moment that it was a good thing that Larry wasn’t home to exercise his charms on her, as he surely would.