The Shoemaker's Wife (56 page)

“I have cancer. They tell me I got it from the mustard gas in the Great War.” As Ciro made the announcement, it was as if his very breath had been taken from him. He crumpled, gripping the back of the chair in the hallway.

Enza was stunned. The drastic news took her totally by surprise, as she had said her rosary throughout the day with a feeling of complete vindication that Dr. Graham’s concerns were nothing to worry about. She put her arms around Ciro. He was sweating, and his skin was cold and clammy, as though he were facing the worst and there was no help on the way. “No,” was all she could say, and then she cried. He held her a long time. He inhaled the scent of her hair, fresh and clean like hay, while she buried her face in his neck.

“Where’s Antonio?” Ciro asked.

“He’s at basketball practice.”

“Should we tell him?”

Enza led Ciro into the kitchen. She poured him a glass of wine, and then one for herself. As in every crisis she had ever faced, Enza, practical and centered, dried her tears, owned the truth, and made a decision to be strong in the face of the challenge. Inside, her feelings tumbled over one another. She was at once desperate, fearful, and angry. She sat forward in the chair and gripped her knees.

“I thought we were the lucky ones, Ciro.”

“We were. For a while.”

“There has to be a doctor somewhere who can help you. I’ll call Laura.”

“No, honey, the doctors at the Mayo Clinic are the best in the world. People come from New York to see doctors there. And I know that for sure, because I spoke with some of them as I was waiting for my tests.”

“You can’t just give up,” Enza cried as her mind reeled. All those backaches, for all these years—she should have known. She thought he was working too hard, and all he needed was rest. But she and Ciro never took the time to go on vacation; they were always worried about the mortgage, and then Antonio’s schooling, and sports. They were running so fast they hadn’t seen the signs. Or maybe they didn’t want to see them. Maybe Ciro had suspected he was doomed all along and just wanted the peace of being left alone until he absolutely could not be. The time had come to be X-rayed, poked, prodded, blood drawn, veins in collapse at the prick of a needle—all of it was coming at them in a dizzy tornado of concerns, options, and treatments. She could not help but punish herself, admonish herself for not moving more swiftly. Why hadn’t she sent him to Doc Graham sooner? Maybe he could have helped. She put her face in her hands.

“There’s nothing you could have done,” Ciro said, reading her. “Nothing.”

“What do we tell Antonio?” Enza asked. “I will do whatever you want.”

“We tell him everything. I have answered every question he has ever asked me honestly. He knows about my father and my mother, his uncle and the convent. He knows what I saw when I was banished from Vilminore, and he knows why. I am not about to start to spin fables to my boy now. If I am going to die, I want him to know that I thought enough of him to share everything.”

Enza wept. “Everything?”

“
Everything
,” Ciro reiterated.

They heard the snap of the key in the lock of the front door opening downstairs. Enza looked at Ciro with desperation.

“Are you sure?”

Ciro didn’t answer.

Antonio bounded into the living room, recounting the day’s events as he dropped his gear. “Ma, I scored twelve points, and had four assists in practice. Coach says I’m first team JV. Isn’t that great?” Antonio entered the kitchen. “Papa, you’re home!” he said when he saw his parents sitting side by side at the small table.

Ciro extended his arms out to his son. They embraced.

“How did it go in Rochester?” Antonio went to the counter, took a heel of bread, slathered it with butter, and bit into it. Ciro smiled, remembering doing the same in the convent kitchen of San Nicola. It occurred to him that
this
is what he would miss when he died. His son as he ate bread.

“Want some?” He extended the bread to his father.

“No, Tony, I don’t.”

“So, what’s the skinny?” Antonio looked at his mother, whose eyes filled with tears. The news had just taken root in her heart, and the pain overwhelmed her, more for her son than for her own broken heart.

“Mama. Papa. What is it?”

“Remember when I told you about the Great War?”

“You were in France, and you said the girls were pretty, but not as pretty as Mama.” Antonio poured himself a tall glass of cold milk from the icebox.

“Yes, but I also told you about the weapons.”

Enza took the glass of milk from Antonio and pulled out a chair. She indicated that he should sit.

“Listen to your father.”

“I am. He just asked me about the weapons in the Great War. There were tanks, machine guns, barbed wire, and mustard gas.”

“Well, I got hit with the mustard gas. So I have a little backache that comes and goes,” Ciro explained.

“You look fine, Papa. Doc Graham can help you. He helps everybody. And when he can’t, he sends you to Dr. McFarland.”

“It’s worse than that, son. I’m very sick. I know I look fine today, but as the days go by, I’m going to get worse. The mustard gas went through to my bones, and now I have the kind of cancer that it gives you. In a matter of time, I will die from it.”

Antonio took in the words, but shook his head as though what he was hearing could not possibly be true. It was when he looked at his mother that he knew. Slowly, Antonio stood up and put his arms around his father. Ciro was shaking, but so was Antonio, who couldn’t believe the terrible news. Enza got up from the table and put her arms around both of them. She wanted to say something to comfort Ciro, and something more to galvanize Antonio, but there were no words. They held one another and wept, and that night, there was no further conversation, or music on the phonograph, or even supper. The house was as quiet as it could be with a family living in it.

Later that night, Antonio buried his face in his pillow and wept. He had looked at a stack of his father’s papers in the living room and seen the diagnosis. He had seen a sketch of his father’s spine, and the strange circles with the words
tumor
and
metastasize
written next to them in ink.

Antonio had studied the Great War in school. He remembered a question on the quiz about mustard gas, and when he asked Ciro about it, he said it had the scent of ammonia and garlic. At the time, it hadn’t registered with Antonio that if his father could identify the scent, he too had been hit with it. But now he knew it was true.

He rolled over and dried his eyes on his pajama sleeve and stared at the ceiling. His greatest fear had come true. He and his mother would be alone; how would they go on without his father?

Antonio had never argued with Ciro. Some said it was because Antonio was an only child, with little cause for conflict. Others said it was because Antonio was unusually serene, with no need to defy authority. But it was deeper than that. Antonio had visited the cemetery on every feast day and prayed near his grandfather’s gravestone. He had stood beside his father as Ciro wept. Antonio had promised himself that he would never add to his father’s sadness.

Antonio had heard the stories. He knew about his father’s life in the convent without any parents. He knew that Zio Eduardo had been placed in the seminary, and Ciro had been forced to come to America when he was scarcely older than Antonio himself. The stories broke Antonio’s heart, and they also made him realize that the last thing his father needed was a rebellious son. Enza was the disciplinarian, leaving Ciro free to love his son and coddle him in a way Ciro himself had never known. Antonio had always known he had a happy home. What would become of them now?

Silver moonlight poured through the skylight of Ciro and Enza’s bedroom. The clean Minnesota breeze carried the pungent scent of spring. The wind off Longyear Lake was cool. It relieved them.

Ciro and Enza were entwined in one another, having made love. Their bodies were like two skeins of silk, woven together, inseparable. Ciro kissed his wife’s neck, and closed his eyes to remember every detail of it.

“Should I draw the shade?” Ciro asked, and Enza knew he was thinking of the old wives’ tale from the mountain.

“The bad luck is already here. The moon won’t change it,” Enza said.

“How do you think Antonio is doing?”

“He would never let you see how scared he is,” Enza said. “It’s good to keep his routine. We’ll go to the games, and we’ll be here when he comes home from practice. All we can do is be here for him.”

“I wish he had a brother. Eduardo was always able to help me through things. I wish he had that.”

“He is close to the Latini boys.”

“Luigi and Pappina are going to tell the older boys, so that they can help Antonio. I didn’t know what to say,” Ciro said.

“I’m sure you said the right thing.” Enza kissed him.

Pappina and Enza centered the navy-blue-and-white-striped tablecloth on the ground, anchoring the edge with a picnic basket on one side, the children’s shoes along the other.

John Latini and Antonio were the same age, soon to turn twelve.

The Latini boys—Robert was ten, and Sebastian nine—waded in the lake, skimming stones and tossing a ball. The rose of the family, baby Angela, was now four. Angela had glossy black hair, wide brown eyes, and tiny rose-petal lips. In stark contrast to her rambunctious brothers, she played quietly on the edge of the cloth with her doll.

“What’s it like to have a little girl?” Enza asked.

“She’s my lucky charm. At least I can teach her my mother’s recipes. Someone will know the old ways when they’re grown.” Pappina offered Angela a fresh peach. The little girl took it and then offered a bite to her doll.

Ciro and Luigi decided to walk along the shore of the lake. In the distance they looked like two old men, huddled close, talking as they went.

Enza unwrapped chicken cutlets, while Pappina sliced tomatoes from her garden, added fresh mozzarella, drizzled them in lemon, and shredded basil on top. They brought loaves of crusty bread, wine for the adults, and lemonade for the children. Pappina made a peach cobbler and a thermos of espresso.

“I talked to the boys. They know what to say to Tony,” Pappina said.

“He’ll need them. They’re like brothers.”

“They’ll be there for him. And we’ll be there for you.”

“Pappina, I look at him and I can’t believe he’s sick. He eats well, he still works hard, he has some aches and pains, but nothing terrible yet. I keep hoping that the tests were wrong. I even went up to see Doc Graham, but he explained what’s ahead for us. Pappina, I don’t think I’ll be able to get through it,” Enza cried.

Pappina leaned over and comforted her. “That’s when your friends will help you. I’m here for you.”

“I know, and I appreciate it. I try not to cry in front of Ciro.”

“You can cry to me anytime.”

“I have so many regrets,” Enza said.

“Why? You have a good marriage.”

“I didn’t have another baby.”

“You tried.” Pappina looked over at Angela, feeling sad that her dear friend could not know the joy of a daughter.

“Ciro wanted another child so much. It was his dream. And I just accepted that I couldn’t. You know, I’m not one to pine for what I don’t have. But my husband is.”

“Remember something—children come into your life in many ways, all the days of your life. Antonio may be an only child today, but someday he’ll marry and who knows? He may have a house full of children.”

Luigi and Ciro made their way back from the shore of the lake. “Okay, girls, what did you make to eat?” Luigi asked. “I need to feed the beast.”

“Your beast could do with a little less feeding,” Pappina said as she prepared her husband a plate.

“Am I fat?” Luigi asked, patting his stomach.

“The third hole in your belt hasn’t seen the prong in two years,” Pappina said.

Ciro laughed.

“Not so funny.” Luigi sat down on the tablecloth.

“Luigi and I were talking about the old days at Zanetti’s.”

“Signora could cook,” Luigi said as he took a bite of a chicken. “Not as good as you, Enza, but pretty good.”

“We’d like to be in the same shop again.”

Enza and Pappina looked at one another.

“I like this town. Hibbing is getting too big. The boys like the lake, and they want to go to school with Antonio. They want to be Bluestreaks.”

“Oh, the kids came up with this?” Enza asked.

“No, we came up with it on behalf of the kids.”

“Well, Pappina and I would love nothing more than to be neighbors.”

“That’s true,” Pappina agreed.

“So we’ll close Caterina One and consolidate with Caterina Two,” Ciro said.

Pappina handed her husband a cup of wine, and gave one to Ciro. She picked up her own cup, while Enza raised hers. “One God. One Man. One shoe shop,” Pappina toasted.

Enza propped feather pillows around Ciro’s back until he was comfortable. “You take good care of me.” Ciro pulled Enza close and kissed her.

“Do you think I’m a dope?” Enza asked. “Consolidating the shop. Working under one roof. I understand what you’re up to. You’re shoring up the shop. You’re putting a plan in place. A
man
in place.”

“I’m being practical,” Ciro said.

“I have a say in this. But you went ahead and made a plan without me. Luigi will keep things running, and you can die in peace, knowing there is someone to look after us.”

“But I’m just trying to take care of you!” Ciro said, bewildered. “Why does this make you angry?”

“Because you’ve accepted your fate when you can change it! You’re not going to die. But if you think you are, you will.”

“Why do you insist every day that I have control over this?”

“Because you do! And you’re just giving up! You’re giving up on me, your son, and our family. I would never give up on you. Never.”

“I wish things were different.”

“If you want to bring Luigi here because it’s good business, then do it. But don’t bring him to take care of me. I won’t have it. I can take care of myself.
I
can take care of our son.” Enza began to cry.