Authors: Rosemary Fifield
Papa’s
head come up; he was no longer asleep.
“What
does it mean, black?” Mamma asked Gianna.
“He’s
Afro-American.
Un
uomo di colore
.”
Mamma
sat silently staring at her, her eyes unblinking, her expression stunned.
Connie’s
gaze shifted from her mother to her father. Papa was combing his bushy mustache
with the fingers of one hand, his face solemn as he watched Gianna.
Gianna
looked at Mamma and then Papa. “Somebody say something, okay?”
Papa
spoke in Italian. “This is not a good thing, Gianna.”
Gianna’s
expression hardened. “Why? What have you got against black people?”
“What
do
I
have against black people?” Papa’s soft brown eyes concentrated on
her face. “This is not about me. What do you think those riots are about that
are happening right now in this country? Black people against white people. The
races don’t mix.”
“That’s
not happening here. This is Vermont.”
“This
is Vermont.” Papa’s forehead creasing into a frown. “What does that mean?”
To
Connie’s surprise, Gianna held her ground. “People here don’t care about color.
They let other people be. They mind their own business.”
“Is
that so? How many black people do you know here in this town? How many went to
your school?”
Gianna
flinched. “None.”
“How
many went to your university?” Papa asked.
“None.”
“How
many do you think live in this state?”
Gianna’s
gaze came up to meet Connie’s once more, then shifted away as she said, “Not
many.”
Papa
leaned toward her. “Then how do you know what Vermont people think about black
people?”
“I
just know that Vermont is different,” Gianna said quietly.
Papa’s
frown deepened. “Vermont is different?” He shook his head, his face heavy with
sadness. “Gianna, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Why?”
Gianna’s voice broke. “Are you going to tell me that people here discriminate
against us for being Italian? Because I don’t see it.”
“You
don’t see a lot of things, Gianna,” Papa said sternly. “But if you think
Vermont is different, I’m telling you that isn’t true. In fact, it’s just the
opposite.”
“Papa,”
Connie broke in, “can we forget about what other people think? What about you
and Mamma? Are you against her seeing him or not?”
Papa’s
gaze remained on Gianna. “I am against my daughter experiencing pain that can
be avoided. There is enough pain in life that we cannot avoid.”
“If
she wants to see him anyway, would you stop her?”
Papa
sat silent for a long moment, still watching Gianna. She stared at the tabletop
between them, her complexion ashen.
Papa’s
voice made his decision clear. “I will not allow it.”
Connie
would have bolted from the table in protest were she in Gianna’s place, but
Gianna did not leave. Her eyebrows knit together in a moment of pain, then her
face took on a vacancy that said she had prepared herself for this. Connie knew
her well enough to know what she was thinking. Any optimism she may have
harbored had quietly drained away. Gianna would take a stoic approach. Life
would go on as it had before she met David Thomas.
Connie
silently cursed Father Ianelli for his thoughtlessness, but she didn’t blame Papa.
Too much misery haunted Papa’s eyes as he watched his eldest retreat into
herself. He hadn’t made this decision lightly nor had he made it out of
personal prejudice. Connie wasn’t sure why, but he seemed to believe he was
protecting Gianna from a true threat.
Mamma
rose from the table and began to clear the bowls and utensils from the workspace,
keeping her own counsel as she moved back and forth between the sink and the
table. A suffocating silence filled the small kitchen. Connie carried the pan
of manicotti to the stove and ladled sauce over the top of the pasta, then
covered the pan, opened the oven door, and slid the pan into the hot oven. When
she turned back to the table after closing the oven door, neither Papa nor
Gianna was in sight.
Angie
came home an hour later, a few minutes before the manicotti was ready to be
taken from the oven. She came through the back door with her head down, greeted
Mamma and Papa with kisses on their cheeks, then disappeared into her bedroom
at the back of the house without speaking to anyone. Connie was about to follow
her, to warn her not to question Gianna about her “date,” when Mamma caught
Connie’s arm and stopped her in mid-stride. Mamma’s face stern as she silently
shook her head.
Connie
turned back toward the kitchen with an exasperated sigh. She was used to high
drama—God knew she contributed her share—but she hated secrets and being left
in the dark. Angie’s covert activity was beginning to wear on Connie’s
patience.
Mamma
handed Connie the pot holders and opened the oven door. Connie bent down to
pull the hot pan of manicotti from the oven and promptly burned her hand
through the thin potholder. She cursed loudly and dropped the pan back onto
the oven shelf, then braced herself for the inevitable tirade about her
language from one or both of her parents.
It
never came. When she looked up, Mamma and Papa were standing silently together,
staring down the hallway after Angie, their faces tight with concern.
Chapter Four
Friday,
September
13, 1968
Connie
and her friend, Marilyn Duran, sat facing one another across a wooden table in
the library at the University of Vermont. Classes had been in session for
almost two weeks, and they were working on their first papers, researching the
role played by northern New Englanders in the Civil War.
Connie
had been staring at the open encyclopedia volume before her for an
indeterminate amount of time, and had yet to read a word. Her thoughts were
elsewhere. “I wish I knew what’s going on with Angie,” she said in a low voice.
“She’s been really distant lately. She sits in her room, and sometimes I can
hear her crying, but she doesn’t want me to come in. Afterwards, she says
everything’s fine and walks away.”
Marilyn
looked up at her with amusement in her green eyes. “It’s probably just
fifteen-year-old girl stuff. Don’t you remember being that age? Everything’s a
crisis. Nobody understands you. Life’s a drag.”
“You’re
right. I’m making a mountain out of a molehill.”
A
sarcastic smile stretched Marilyn’s lips. “How unlike you. What’s up with your
other sister? Is she still in a funk?”
“It’s
hard to say. She keeps pretty much to herself, which, of course, is nothing new.”
Marilyn
returned her attention to her work, and Connie forced herself to read the
encyclopedia passage about Vermont Representative Justin S. Morrill’s efforts
to preserve the Union in eighteen sixty. After an hour of taking notes, Connie
looked up at the clock. It was going on four thirty.
“Gotta
go.” She closed the heavy book. “I wish we could check these things out.”
“You
still don’t have a set at home?”
Connie
shook her head. “My parents talked about it, but they don’t have the extra
money. I’ll just have to go to the town library tomorrow.” Connie sighed. “It
would be so much easier if I lived on campus.”
Marilyn
grimaced sympathetically. “Hey, I saw what’s-his-face the other day—that guy
from last year’s American Lit class. The one you were talking about riding
with.”
Connie
gathered her books and notebooks into a pile. “Greg? Really? I’ve been looking
for him all week, but I’ve never seen him. I thought maybe he didn’t come
back.”
“He’s
back. I was down by the lakefront yesterday, and I saw him there with that
redhead from the drama club. You know the one I mean. The snotty one. Leave the
encyclopedia. I’ll take it back when I go.”
“Well,
I’d love to make it work but, for all I know, he’s living here now and not even
commuting anymore.” No use putting too much stock into the remote possibility
that last year’s offer still stood. She stood and picked up the stack of textbooks.
“You
know, Margo Lister has the hots for him bad.” Marilyn’s smile was evil. “If you
start riding to school with him, she’ll have a hissy.”
Connie
laughed. “I’ll make sure you’re the first to know, so you can spread the news.”
A
cold wind blowing in from Lake Champlain carried the threat of rain as Connie
walked to the commuter parking lot; the previously pleasant September day had
turned gray and uncomfortably damp while she was in the library.
She
stood beside her car, clutching the pile of books to her chest with one hand,
struggling with the other to unlock the passenger-side door. A chilly gust
plastered her lightweight sweater against her back, and strands of hair escaped
from her pony tail to flutter annoyingly around her face as she wrestled the
creaky door open and tossed the books onto the passenger seat. She was tired
after a week of late nights studying, and the prospect of driving for an hour
to reach home was almost more than she could bear. But, at least it was Friday,
and she would have the weekend to recover.
She
pushed the recalcitrant car door shut with a grunt, then turned into the
buffeting wind and walked with her head down to the driver’s side of the old
station wagon. She was pleased to hear that Greg Fairchild was still around,
but his presence on campus didn’t guarantee that his offer to share rides would
still stand. Besides, she barely knew him, and quite possibly her mother was
right—being alone with a virtual stranger in his car could turn out to be a big
mistake.
She
slid into place behind the steering wheel, pulled the door shut, and gave a
little shiver as she settled against the cold upholstery. Dark clouds were
rolling in from the northwest; some type of storm was on its way. She leaned
back against the seat and closed her weary eyes for a moment.
A
sharp rapping on the glass beside her head jolted her awake. Rain was pattering
steadily against the windshield, and the lights in the parking lot shone dully
against a night sky.
She
turned toward the window, still groggy with sleep.
The
eerie specter of Greg Fairchild’s pale face hovered on the other side of the
glass. Dark wet curls plastered his furrowed brow, and his voice sounded
muffled as he asked, “Are you okay?”
Connie
cranked the window down, and a rush of cold, damp air instantly revived her.
She blinked in surprise at seeing him. “Yeah. I guess I fell asleep. How are
you?”
“Wet.”
His frown transformed into an easy grin. “I just wanted to make sure you were
okay. Are you going to be able to drive home all right? I’d offer you a ride,
but I’m heading out with some friends.”
Embarrassment
warmed Connie’s cheeks. “I’m fine, but thanks for asking. How did you find me?
I’ve been watching for you all week, but I haven’t seen you.”
“I
noticed the car.” He slapped the top of her old station wagon. “There aren’t
too many of these babies around.” A woman called his name, and he straightened
up and turned to answer, then bent down to look into Connie’s window once more,
his face close to hers. His breath smelled of mint chewing gum. “I’ve got to
go. But let me know if you want to ride together some time. I start at nine
every day but Fridays. I don’t mind getting here earlier, though.”
Connie
nodded. “I’d like to. Can we meet somewhere next week to talk about it?”
“How
about right here on Monday? At noon?” He flashed his handsome smile at her once
more, then stood up and glanced toward his friends. “You’re sure you’re okay to
drive?”
“I’m
sure.” Connie grinned up at him. She was wide awake now and invigorated by the
prospect of having a break from driving alone after all. “You’re getting
soaked. I’ll meet you here at noon on Monday. Thanks.”
He
waved and set off at a run to join his friends as Connie rolled up her window.
She watched three guys and two girls disappear into the darkness beyond the
weak light of the streetlamps before she turned the key to start the car.
She
had forgotten how attractive he was. He looked especially good in the tight
blue jeans and leather jacket he was wearing tonight. But she couldn’t go down
that road. He had a girlfriend, and if he thought there was anything more to
her wanting to ride with him, that could ruin her chances of sharing trips to
school and back. She needed a fellow driver more than she needed a guy in her
life.
She
drove out onto the street and headed for the highway. The unrelenting rain and
the blackness of night seemed to absorb all of the illumination from her
headlights; at times she wondered if they were still on. She drove slower than
usual, squinting into the all-encompassing darkness, afraid she would drive off
the wet asphalt, and when she finally reached home and parked in front of the
store, she was more than an hour late. A curtain moved in the brightly lit
windows above the darkened store as she turned off the lights and motor.
Someone had been watching for her, and she knew she was in for a lecture.
This
is a good example of why I shouldn’t be driving alone
, she thought, knowing full well that on this
particular night Greg still would have left her on her own.
She
cursed herself for not having an umbrella, then stretched her sweater around
and over the books she clutched to her chest and bolted through the heavy rain
to the wet staircase leading up the side of the house. Her mother opened the
kitchen door as Connie reached it, and she hurried into the welcome warmth, her
hair dripping chilly water down her face and neck as she entered. The room
still smelled of the baked stuffed eggplant her mother had made for supper, and
Connie realized how hungry she was. Her last meal had been a lunchtime bowl of clam
chowder in the student union cafeteria.
“You’re
late!” Mamma went to the sink and come back with a hand towel which she rubbed
vigorously against Connie’s dripping hair.
“Geez,
Ma, give me a minute.” Connie set her books on the kitchen table and peeled off
her soaked sweater. Angie stood in the doorway to the living room, watching
her; she could hear her father snoring in the room beyond. As Connie disengaged
the final length of wet sleeve from her skin, Angie stepped into the kitchen
and silently took the sweater from her, then disappeared into the bathroom with
it.
“Driving
was bad. Plus, I fell asleep in the parking lot for a while. I don’t know how
long.” Connie took the towel from her mother and rubbed her own hair, then
dried her face and neck and rubbed the wet skin on her forearms. She was beginning
to warm up, and her attentions shifted to her rumbling stomach. “I’m sorry I
missed supper. I left the library at four-thirty, like usual, but I was so
tired, I just fell asleep when I got into the car. And then, I could hardly see
in the rain. It’s like you have no headlights.”
Mamma
turned on the oven, then went to the refrigerator and pulled out the pan of
leftover eggplant. “This is only the second week of school, and you’re tired
already? This is not good. Maybe you go to school too far away. Maybe you
should go to St. Agnes. Gianna was never so tired.”
I’d
rather poke my eyes out with a fork
.
“The first weeks are always tough. It’s just a matter of getting used to it.
I’ll be fine.”
“I
see,” Mamma said, but the tone of her voice made Connie think that her mother
didn’t see at all. Mamma put the eggplant casserole into the oven, then pivoted
to look into Connie’s face. “While you wait for your supper, your sister has
something to tell you.”
Angie
had returned to the kitchen and was pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. Her
eyes were red and puffy, and Connie’s throat tightened with panic as she pulled
out the chair across from Angie. “What?”
Angie’s
red-rimmed eyes came up to meet Connie’s, and she frowned. “Not me. Gianna.”
Confused,
Connie turned toward the living room where Gianna stood in the doorway,
silently watching them. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and her glossy dark
hair hung in a pageboy cut just above her shoulders. Connie gave her sister a
wide grin. “Your hair looks great! It really changes your face. Did you get
contacts, too?”
“Geezum,
Connie.” Angie’s voice sounded strangled.
“I’m
not getting contacts.” Gianna’s eyes were locked on Connie’s, and her face was
tense. “I won’t need them. I’m joining the Carmelites.”
Connie
stared at her, dumbfounded. Like all Catholic girls, she and Gianna had talked
about becoming nuns when they were younger. Mostly, they admired the
floor-length, layered habits the nuns wore, like medieval women living in
castles. The Carmelites’ outfits were particularly attractive, with their
brown-and-cream-colored robes instead of the usual black and white. Connie and
Gianna had even picked out their names. She would be Sister Mary Sophia, and
Gianna would be Sister Mary Peter.
“Say
something,” Gianna said, her voice cold.
Only
one word came to Connie. “
Why
?”
“Because
I have a calling.”
“A
calling? Like what?”
Gianna
crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s what I want to do.”
Surely
she was kidding. “Who called?”
Gianna
stiffened, her anger clear. “Don’t make fun of me, Connie.”
She
could shut down at any moment, and Connie needed to keep her talking.“I’m not.
I’m trying to understand. When did you get this calling? And how?”
“I
just know it’s the right thing to do, okay?” Gianna’s lip curled. “I didn’t hear
voices, if that’s what you mean.”
“Why
is it the right thing to do?” Connie persisted. “Aren’t the Carmelites
cloistered? What are you doing? Running away?”