The Fortunate Pilgrim (16 page)

The mother rose to put coffee on the fire, for Octavia in her book would forget about everything. The mother wondered, What could be in these books that stunned her daughter into some magic oblivion? It was something she would never know, and if she had been younger she would have felt some envy or regret. But she was a busy woman with important work to be done for many years and could not make herself unhappy over pleasures of which she did not know the taste. She had enough regrets about pleasures whose taste she had known. But there was nothing to be done about that, either. She grimaced from the steam and her thoughts.

She had to go down to the other end of the hall to get the milk from the icebox again, and some good Italian peppered ham to tempt Octavia, who was getting too thin. Lucia Santa heard someone coming slowly up the steps, but whoever it was could only be on the second floor. She left the door of the apartment open, to get a little air from the ironing. Anyway, no one could go past their door to the icebox and bureau and then up the roof and escape. She sat at the table with her daughter, both of them drinking coffee, eating the prosciutto and coarse bread. They could both hear the steps coming up close, and then the shawled head of Zia Louche rose slowly and cautiously over the last step of the stairs and the old lady hobbled into the apartment, cursing terribly in Italian.

They were too intimate with her to give the usual greetings of formal courtesy. Lucia Santa rose to set another cup and slice more bread, though she knew the old dame never ate before other people. Octavia said pleasantly in Italian and with respect, “How are you feeling, Zia Louche?”

The old woman made a gesture of angry impatience, the gesture of a person who waits for a death that is in the present and therefore finds such a question not polite, in poor taste. They sat in silence.

“Work, work,” Lucia Santa said. “This school, what miracles they make over it. The children must dress like the President himself, and I must wash and iron like a slave.”

Zia Louche said, “Eh, eh,” and made another impatient gesture as if to brush away all people who expected life to run smooth. She took off her shabby black coat and then the long knitted sweater with its buttons down to her knees.

Under those gimlet eyes Octavia felt she could no longer read; it would not be respectful. She rose and began to iron slowly. The mother reached out and closed the book, which was lying open on the table, so the daughter could not look down at it and read while ironing. Then Octavia was aware that she was being accorded the rare honor of a direct address from Zia Louche.

“Young lady of mine,” Zia Louche said, with the rough familiarity of the old, “your handsome brother, has he appeared at all today?”

“No, Zia Louche,” Octavia replied demurely. If anyone else had used this tone with her she would have spat in her face, especially the smug fat matrons, those guineas who always spoke to young girls with voices filled with sly pity because they had never tasted the pleasures of a marriage bed.

“And you, Lucia Santa?” Zia Louche asked. When the mother shook her head the old woman continued sharply, “Then you have no concern for this beautiful son of yours, a boy of seventeen years, in a country like this? You have no fears for him?” Octavia saw her mother’s face contort in a frown of anxiety.

Lucia Santa shrugged helplessly. “What is now with that
disgrazia
? Saturday nights he never sleeps at home. Nothing has happened?”

Zia Louche gave a short harsh laugh. “Oh, yes, something has happened. A whole comedy has been played. And, as usual in America, the mother is the last to know. Calm, Lucia Santa, your beautiful son is safe, alive. The Lady Killer—” she said this last in American, with incredible relish—“has finally met a girl who is very much alive. Congratulations, Lucia Santa, on your son’s marriage and your new daughter-in-law—American style.”

The stunning effect of this was such that Octavia and her mother could only stare. The old lady, in her taunting way, hoped to draw some of their rage on herself, but now she had to give way to gales and gales of laughter that shook her old skeleton in its flesh of black cloth, gasping out, “No, no, Lucia Santa, you must forgive me, you have all my love in this, but oh, what a villain your Lorenzo is,
cue mascalzone.
It’s too much, it’s really too much.” But then she saw the stony face of her friend, the tight lips, the almost mortal insult that she had given. She composed herself. She held the wrinkled bones of her face in a gravity suitable to her years. But she could not hide a certain contempt for their anxiety.

“Again forgive me,” Zia Louche said. “But with a son who is such a whoremaster, what did you expect, after all? Would you rather see him beaten or dead? Your son is not stupid, Lucia Santa. Signora Le Cinglata, twenty years barren, and Signor Le Cinglata, married twice, forty years a husband and never a father, finally they are blessed.” She bowed her head mockingly. “Thanks be to the good God. But the man Le Cinglata thinks he owes his thanks to someone nearer and sharpens his knife to repay this debt. And the shameless woman Le Cinglata had a dream of marrying your son. Is this possible of a woman born and raised in Italy? Oh America—shameless land.” At this Lucia Santa raised a threatening hand to heaven in a wordless curse on the brazen Le Cinglata, but she leaned forward to hear more.

Zia Louche went on. “Your son finally is trapped by the tigers he has so thoughtlessly tamed. A word from the Le Cinglata to her husband and he is a dead man. But if he gives hope to the old whore, what may happen? What disgrace? She may even poison the old man and bring them both to the electric chair. But you know your son, he is clever and will do anything to avoid saying ‘No’ to anyone. So away he scampers to City Hall and marries a young innocent Italian girl who has watched him ride his horse on Tenth Avenue since she was in pigtails, without ever speaking to him. No one even knew he was acquainted with this bride, they had never even spoke together in public. Her people live on 31st Street, the family of Marconozzi, respectable, but the poorest of the poor. Oh, he is sly, your son, he will be a priest.”

The mother asked quietly, “Has the girl a good reputation?”

Zia Louche grinned lewdly. “Men like your son marry only those girls who are irreproachable. That is their philosophy. Who values the virgin more than the whoremaster? But she is a stick.” The old dame held up a bony skeleton forefinger, the gnarled bones lewder than any rounded flesh. “Dear God of mine, he’ll split her in two like a piece of kindling.” She crossed herself.

Octavia was furious, shamed by this marriage so typical of the poor, at the scandal, the sordidness of her brother’s life. The disgusting sex madness they were all infected with. She saw with surprise that her mother was now in no way disturbed and was even smiling faintly. Octavia did not understand that this news, while surprising, disconcerting, something that it was better should not have happened, was not really bad news. How could it be for a woman who waited for more terrible dreams to become a reality? The fear of mysterious illness, murderous deeds of passion, prison, the electric chair—all were perfectly possible, all discernible. Lorenzo could have married a whore, or a slattern, or even one of the Irish. So he had married in haste, a common occurrence with the sons of the poor and no disgrace; the disgrace lay with the parents of the girl. “Everyone will think the worst,” Octavia said aloud. “The rotten bastard.”

But Lucia Santa was laughing outright now, at the thwarting of the Le Cinglatas, at her son’s slyness. “Where is he now, this beautiful son of mine?” she asked Zia Louche.

Zia Louche said, “Let me finish. The man Le Cinglata now believes himself the father. A woman has only to hold a man on his knees by both ears and then she can lead him anywhere. But there is another question. The girl’s mother, ah, the mother of the bride, she must be told. There is the problem. They are as proud as they are poor. They will consider their daughter shamed.”

Lucia Santa made an impatient gesture. “I will go and tell them. We are as proud, and certainly as poor. We will understand each other. But now, where are they?”

The old woman rose, groaning as her bones creaked. She hobbled out the door and shouted down the stairwell, “Lorenzo, Louisa, come up.”

As the three women waited for the bridal pair to ascend the stairs, they pondered on this new change in fortune. The mother suddenly realized that the loss of her son’s income would be a serious blow to the family. But until he had children, he would be made to contribute something to his fatherless brothers and sisters. She was determined on that. Next, the second-floor apartment would be vacant soon; they could move into it, so she could watch her new daughter-in-law, help the couple in their early troubles, and with the babies to come—for she had no doubt she would soon be a grandmother. And then she had a great curiosity to see the looks of the girl her handsome son had finally chosen, the one who had finally put the bit in his mouth.

Octavia, too, was thinking now about money. That bastard Larry, deserting the family just when they needed the money most. And suddenly she was convinced that this was the real reason for his marriage, that the mother had ruled with too iron a hand, taking most of his pay check, restricting his freedom, so he had chosen this means of shedding his bonds. And now that the family was in trouble, Larry could see no future in it. Octavia prepared to welcome him as a brazen traitor and let his floozy have no doubts about her position with this family.

Zia Louche waited. Without a shred of malice, she was delighted to witness such a fine comedy.

Larry’s handsome dark head rose first above the stairs. The girl was almost invisible behind him. Larry had an embarrassed grin that was charming; its usual confidence was touched by an alien bit of shyness. His mother waited for him with a smile of welcome touched with forgiving contempt.

Larry said quickly, “Mom, Sis, I want you to meet my wife.” He brought the thin girl out from behind him. “Lou, this is my mother and sister Octavia.”

The mother embraced the young girl and made her sit down. At the sight of the beautiful, pale, thin face with the great haunting brown eyes, the immature figure, Octavia felt an overwhelming pity for the girl. This was just a kid, she would never be able to handle Larry, she didn’t know the life she would lead. Octavia, looking at her brother, his strong body, sleek black hair, knowing his romantic belief in himself, felt pity for him too; that this would be the end of his dreams; that his life had come to an end. She remembered him riding up Tenth Avenue on his black horse, sparks flying from cobblestones and steel tracks; the way he talked about himself as if he alone saw some great destiny. She understood that his goodness—his going early to work to help his mother, his leaving school and not preparing his mind for the life struggle—had left him without weapons to fight his fate. Now he would have children, the years would fly by as swiftly as the horse passed under the bridge, and he would be middle-aged. And since he was Larry, still dreaming. She had loved him once when they were children together, and now her pity made her kind to his child wife. She kissed Larry on the cheek and hugged her new sister-in-law, feeling the other’s body stiff with fright.

They all sat down to a wedding feast of coffee and dry buns and arranged that the newly married couple would sleep there until the apartment on the second floor was vacant. Larry became animated, talking cheerfully; everything was going well. He was perfectly at ease. But suddenly Louisa buried her face in her hands and began to weep, saying between low, choking sobs, “I’ve got to go home and tell my mother.”

Lucia Santa rose and said with determination, “We will all go. We should know each other, all of us, since we are related.”

Larry said tentatively, “Gee, Ma, I gotta go on the night shift. You go over with Lou, and then I’ll go over tomorrow.”

The young bride looked at him with fearful surprise. Octavia burst out angrily, “Like hell you will, Larry. Your wedding night is a good excuse for a day off from work. You go with Mom and Louisa to her house and stick up for your wife.”

Louisa looked at her wide-eyed, as if she had committed some blasphemy. Larry laughed and said, “Sis, come on, stop making a big deal out of the whole thing. You want me to go, Lou?” The girl nodded her head. He put a hand on her back protectively and said, “Then I’ll come.”

When the girl said, “Thanks, Larry,” Octavia laughed loudly. She was surprised that her mother gave her such a threatening look, surprised that her mother had not forced Larry to do what was right. But when Lucia Santa said courteously to her son, “I think it better if you come with us, Lorenzo,” she realized that her mother had accepted a new role; that she no longer considered herself the master of this particular child, and in some chilling way she was casting him out of her heart—not with anger or malice or lack of love, but as a burden to be dropped, to leave more strength for other burdens. When they all left, Octavia was so depressed that she ironed all the wash and did not reopen her book.

LIFE IS SO
full of surprises for small boys that Gino was not surprised the next morning to see the long black hair of a girl in his brother Larry’s bed. Standing in his modest winter underwear, Gino studied them. Larry looked different, and the girl didn’t look right, either. The two pale faces, dead white with sleep in the chilly apartment, defenseless in a terribly deep unconsciousness, a tragic exhaustion, held the drawn purity of death. Both had jet-black hair, all scattered and untidy and flowing into each other as if it were a single silky mass of black grown together over both their faces. Then Larry stirred; strength and power and life came flowing back, blood rose from his body and tinged his cheeks. The heavy straight black eyebrows moved, his eyes opened, and the dark eyes flashed. Larry jerked his head away from the girl’s so that now their hair did not intermingle and he was separate. He saw Gino watching them and grinned.

Vinnie had already taken the top of the milk bottle, the first inch of frozen icy cream that was a prize for the early bird. Gino tried to open another milk bottle, but his mother made his hand sting with the flat of a knife.