Rare Objects (32 page)

It was a balmy, pleasant evening in the North End, one of the first really warm nights of spring. Russo's bakery doors were open, and musicians—an accordion player, a mandolin player, and a violinist—stood on the sidewalk just outside, playing a mix of Neapolitan songs, Verdi, Puccini, and the occasional tune from a Broadway show. Most of the neighborhood had crowded inside, all talking, shouting, and laughing, and Umberto Russo's famous homemade red wine was making the rounds in small paper cups, along with delicacies baked for the occasion. Pina sat at the center of all of it, holding a large, round baby boy with a red face and a cloud of soft black hair, the newest member of the family, Ulysses Manetti. Behind her, her husband, Augie, stood with one hand on her shoulder, greeting everyone with a firm handshake and the occasional outburst of grateful tears. Since Augie lost his job, they'd struggled. Early every morning he stood in line for day work down at the docks, and both he and Pina were thinner, tired. The haughty voluptuousness that had defined Pina's beauty had dulled to a pensive fortitude. And instead of leaving the bakery, she would now bring her new son with her to sit in the kitchens with her father and brother while she continued to work the counter.

But today was a celebration. Rusty arrived with two boxes of Cuban cigars that were quickly passed around, and a bouquet of yellow roses for Pina. The oldest brother, Romulus, came in with antipasto platters laden with hard salami, mortadella, capicola, and slices of fontinella and provolone cheese for sandwiches. Gifts overflowed on the table next to them—an elaborate fruit basket crowned with an enormous pineapple from Mr. and Mrs. Contadino, stacks of knitted baby blankets in an assortment of colors, a white wicker basket with a soft flannel cushion, a shiny tin
piggy bank from Angela and Carlo, muslin baby gowns, bags of fresh almonds and walnuts, and a good-quality secondhand baby buggy from Pina's parents, with double-spring action and large white rubber wheels.

Ma had knitted a tiny little wool jacket with an Irish lace collar, and I'd bought a pair of white kid booties to be worn at the christening, which we added to the pile.

The local policemen stopped by for a drink and cigar; children danced barefoot on the sidewalk in front of the musicians; two elderly men,
anziani
of the neighborhood, took it upon themselves to propose a series of toasts in Italian that were echoed enthusiastically. Soon Mr. Russo was opening another jug of homemade wine.

The baby was passed around for everyone to hold, and when it was my turn he nestled into the warm nook between my chest and arm. Pink-skinned and content, he was softly scented with the intoxicating, milky perfume of all newborns. I smelled his head, both touched and disoriented by the wave of instinctive protectiveness I felt.

Mrs. Russo laughed, put a hand on my shoulder. “That will be you someday soon!”

“What do you think, Jean Harlow?” Pina gazed at her son, cradled in my arms. For all their current difficulties, her face was relaxed and serene when she was looking at him. “Why don't you stop chasing your tail and settle down?”

I didn't bother to answer back. It was her party, and she could rib me all she wanted. Besides, I couldn't take my eyes off the tiny fingers that curled around my own. At the same time, I couldn't dispel the memory of the dingy doctor's office in Brooklyn, how long it had taken me to find the place. And the way the nurse had
asked me twice, “Are you sure? Are you really certain you want to do this?” I tried to push it from my mind.

Later I sat out on the sidewalk on a couple of wooden crates with Angela, herself now just beginning to show. We shared a salami sandwich and a cigarette, listening to the music and enjoying the tenderness of the early evening breeze. The sun was setting behind the buildings. A delicate bluish gray shadow saturated the evening sky.

We watched as a couple of skinny little girls bounced up and down in time to the music, laughing hysterically. They had straight Buster Brown haircuts, long, thin faces with large brown eyes. They reminded me of us when we were little—too skinny, too theatrical, wearing hand-me-down clothes and secondhand shoes.

“Did you hear about Mickey?” Angela asked.

“What about him?”

“Hildy's due in August. They got married last weekend. Her sister came in the other day, bragging.”

Suddenly I felt winded, unable to properly catch my breath. “She's having a baby?”

The memory of our last meeting still haunted me.

“That's right.”

I'd made my choice, and the rest of the world had moved on without me. I was invisible, erased, as if I'd never even existed.

Angela looked at me sideways. “I thought you were over him.”

I nodded. “I am.”

“Good. There are other fish in the sea.” She took a final drag on the cigarette before grinding it out underneath her heel. “Hildy's a piece of work, though. My goodness, doesn't she have a mouth on her!”

She was waiting for me to join in the gossip, but I just sat there, silent. The subtle scent of baby still lingered in my nostrils, the weight of him in my arms.

“You know,” she said, shifting, “Carlo has met some nice guys in his course. They study all the time right now, but when we have our own place, I'll invite you over to dinner.”

I was on the verge of being a hopeless spinster. “I'm okay. Actually, I've got some prospects of my own.”

“
Really?
” She leaned in closer, grinning. “Tell me everything!”

“I just meant I'm working a lot anyway, so I'm not really bothered,” I said, backtracking.

“Oh, well. You don't want to put it off too long.” And she rested her hand on the gentle curve of her belly. “I'm going to have another amoretti. Or two.” She got up. “Do you want one?”

“No, thank you.”

She went back inside, absorbed into the noisy crowd of her family. I pulled my legs up, rested my chin on my knees. Loneliness thudded inside me like a heartbeat.

Angela had left her cup of wine. I picked it up; it was almost full.

Ma came out, fanning herself with her hand. “It's so warm in there! I'm off,” she announced, pulling on a pair of white crocheted gloves.

“So soon?”

She frowned, nodding to the cup. “Is that yours?”

“No.” I put it down again.

“Well, don't be too late.”

I watched as she headed down the street with quick, neat steps.

Dr. Joseph's words rang in my ears, “There is a line between normal and abnormal behavior. You've already crossed that line.”

He was right. There was something fundamentally wrong with me. This world was real, solid. I could hold a baby and feel everything a real woman would. So why didn't I want this? Why didn't I want to marry Mickey or have his child or even meet one of Carlo's nice friends?

What did I hope to be instead?

Suddenly my heart was racing, panicked. I was fooling myself; no one would ever want me. James was little more than a chimera shimmering on the horizon—magnetic, alluring, but always out of reach.

One of the policemen stepped out onto the sidewalk, swinging his baton in time to the music. It was Jack Carney, a relative of my second cousins from the South End. A big, solid man, he cut a little caper, tipping his hat to me. (Clearly he'd had more than his fair share of the Russos' homemade wine.) I didn't like him. He made my skin crawl, with his large pink face and thick lips. “Well, if it isn't Maeve Fanning! Give us a dance!” He laughed. “You may be hiding that red hair nowadays, but I remember when you had a head like a four-alarm fire! You would dance all night long, Matchstick! Do you remember?” And he laughed again.

I tried to ignore him. The musicians played “Torna a Surriento.” And the little girls began to dance again. They twirled, arms round each other's waists, slowly and dramatically, comical expressions of pathos on their faces.

“Don't tell me you're shy!” He leaned in, a gleam in his eye. “That mother of yours was never shy about anything, I can tell you that. We knew her back in the old country, before she turned into a saint and floated off to heaven. She was like you, Matchstick—a sight to behold!”

I hated it when he spoke about Ma. They'd come from the
same village, and he'd always had a soft spot for her—an affection she returned only with cold courtesy. But that didn't stop him from pressing his case each time he saw her.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do!” He jabbed at me with a thick finger. “She thinks she's too good for everyone now, doesn't she?”

I tried to get up. “I have to go.”

But he stood in my way. “Come on, Matchstick! Give us a dance! Show us all how it's done!”

I wanted to punch his fat face.

Luckily his partner came out, hat in hand, smoking a cigar. “Come on, Jackie.” He gave Carney a shove. “Let's get out of here.”

They made their way down the street. Jack Carney twirled his stick, swaying a little as he went.

My hands were trembling. What self-possession I had left crumbled. I had to leave. Angela would be out again soon; everything she said, each question, felt like a searchlight, the bright beam exposing nothing but mistakes and cracks in my character.

I didn't go home. Instead I walked across town to the only place where I could be alone, Waverly Mansions. And when I unlocked the door, I found my postcard on the floor with the rest of the unopened mail. Apparently Diana hadn't been there in quite some time.

Once inside, relief washed over me. On the street, I'd felt as if my skin was transparent and everyone could see straight through me. Now I was safe. The apartment was perfectly quiet in a way that nothing in the North End ever was. But without Diana, it had the eerie emptiness and ambiguity of a hotel room.

Going into the kitchen, I opened up the cupboards and found a tin of saltine crackers and a bottle of real London dry gin she
stocked just for me—the kind that couldn't be bought, even on the black market.

Settling into the sofa, I poured out a glass, lit a cigarette.

With the very first sip, the world began to soften, melt, and recede.

The smell of smoke woke me up. I came to with a jolt. It was dark outside. The dim lamplight cast shadows around the room. Across from me, Diana was sitting in one of the armchairs, and a stranger was standing near the window, his back to me, smoking.

“Relax.” Diana's voice was calm and low. “Looks like you fell asleep.”

The man by the window laughed—a hard, sharp sound. Even with his back turned, I could tell he didn't like me.

I blinked, looked around. The gin bottle was lying on the floor, half empty. The tin of saltines was unopened.

“I'm sorry.” I tried to pull myself up. My tongue was thick and dry, as if it were made of felt. “I shoulda called. I'm sorry. I'll go.”

“No. You need to sleep it off,” Diana insisted.

“What time is it?” I was desperate for a glass of water.

“Three twenty.” The man at the window exhaled, turned to face me. Only it wasn't a man. The soft curve of breasts filled out the man's suit jacket; the skin of her finely boned jawline was smooth. Gray eyes stared challengingly from beneath slicked-back hair. One hand in her trouser pocket, she walked over to Diana and placed the other on Diana's shoulder. Diana reached up to take it.

“This is Max,” Diana said. “We're going to go to bed in a minute.”

I stared at Max, trying to work out whether she was really a
woman, or a man who looked like a woman, or perhaps not really there at all. If I concentrated hard enough, maybe both of them would disappear.

But they didn't.

“You're . . . you're going to bed?” I repeated.

“That's right,” Max said.

I began to understand, though I wasn't sure that I wanted to.

“I'll go.” I tried to stand, but my knees buckled, and I hit the edge of the table hard. Diana gasped in sympathy; pain shot through my legs. I tried to get up again, but the room was spinning. “I'm sorry, I know I should . . .” And then, out of nowhere, I began to cry.

With an exasperated sigh, Max jammed the cigarette into the side of her mouth and hauled me up by the shoulders. “Go to the toilet and wash your face,” she commanded, steering me round the furniture. She wasn't the kind of person you wanted to argue with.

“I'm . . . I'm afraid I've had too much to drink,” I said, sobbing.

“You don't say.” Max pushed me into the bathroom.

I wept as I washed my face. Then somehow I managed to back into the bath, pull down the shower curtain, and throw up on the floor.

When I finally came out, someone, presumably Max, had made a bed on the sofa. There was a bucket next to it, and a glass of water on the coffee table. The gin bottle was nowhere to be seen.

“You're going to sleep now,” Max told me. She pointed to the sofa. “We're going to bed too.” Then she glanced at Diana, who stood up, as if on cue. “If you're sick again, aim for the bucket.”

Max and Diana went into the bedroom and closed the door.

I sat down on the edge of the sofa, head in hands. My knees throbbed, and my nose was running. Only I wasn't drunk enough to pass out. One last shot was what I needed.

I was about to creep into the kitchen in search of the gin when Max called from the bedroom, “And don't even try to look for the bottle, blondie. I've got it here, with me in bed.”

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, bleary-eyed and still half drunk, I came to. Diana was sitting across from me in a dressing gown, waiting. Gingerly, head throbbing, I eased myself up.

Before I could say anything, she pushed the glass of water across the coffee table toward me. “Drink. You'll feel better.”

I did as I was told. But I couldn't sit upright for long; my head was spinning. I collapsed again.