The Shoemaker's Wife (27 page)

“She’s watching the baby!” Anna shrieked.

“Maybe one of the other girls could help.”

“Dora is in school! Jenny has children! It’s your job!”

“Yes, Signora.” Enza lifted the laundry basket and entered the kitchen.

Anna called after her, “The sun will go down and the clothes won’t dry. I don’t know why I took you in, you stupid girl!”

Late that evening, Anna stood by her phonograph player in the living room. She sorted through stacks of Enrico Caruso’s records, shuffling through them like cards. She chose a record, placed it on the turntable, and cranked the wheel. The needle settled into the grooves as Anna poured herself a glass of whiskey. Soon the air was filled with Caruso’s artistry, long, luscious notes, arias sung in Italian. The scratches on the wax records only made his voice sound sweeter, the grooves deepened from wear.

Anna played “Mattinata” over and over again at top volume, until the neighbor yelled, “
Basta
!” Then she changed the record, playing music from
Lucia
di
Lammermoor
until she fell asleep, the needle scouring the innermost track of the wax in an endless hiss.

Enza checked the strands of fresh pasta she had made that morning, hanging them up to dry on wooden dowels. As they dried, the powdery scent of flour wafted through the kitchen. These were the things that made Enza long for the Ravanelli kitchen in Schilpario, on days when Mama would cover the table in flour and they would knead fluffy ropes of potato pasta to make gnocchi, or roll small, delicate bundles of crepes filled with cheese and bits of sweet sausage.

Enza tried not to think about home when she did her chores. She would rather be helping her own mother than this ungrateful landlord.

Enza walked through the piles of dirty laundry on the sunporch. None of the Buffa women worked in the local factories, nor did they perform any of the usual household chores. They considered Enza their personal maid. They had adjusted quickly to having everything done for them, as if they came from homes with servants.

Enza lifted the tin washtub, filled with wet laundry she had scrubbed and rinsed by hand. She pushed the screen door open and stepped out onto the patch of grass behind the tenement, where she had strung a clothesline across the courtyard. Every bit of space behind the building had been negotiated and bartered, including the open air. Lines of rope choked the sky like strings on a harp.

Enza lifted the corners of her apron, tucking them beneath the sash. She filled the pocket with clothespins. She lifted a bleached white diaper out of the bin, snapped it, and clipped it to the clothesline. She yanked the pulley and hung the next, and the next. Enza’s laundry was always the most pristine in the courtyard. She used lye soap, and finished the job with a soak in hot water and bleach.

Enza hung the underpants, pantalettes, and skirts of the Buffa women one by one. When she had first arrived, she would drop lavender oil into the rinse as she had when she washed the family’s clothes in Schilpario, but after a few months, she stopped. Her extra efforts were neither appreciated nor acknowledged. She only heard complaints: there was a wrinkle in a hem, or the laundry wasn’t finished fast enough. Four babies had been born in six years on Adams Street. Enza could barely keep up with the workload.

Anna Buffa played a duet from
Rigoletto
at full volume as Enza heated chicken stock on the stove. She chopped a carrot into slim discs and dropped them into the broth. Enza carefully ladled a cup of pastina into the pot, then another. The tiny dots of pasta, as small as rice, would make a hearty soup. Giacomina had taught Enza that all ingredients in soup must be chopped and diced similarly to create a smooth texture in order to feel uniform in the mouth, no one ingredient overpowering another.

Enza prepared a tray for Anna’s meal. She poured a glass of wine from a homemade bottle labeled “Isabelle Bell,” and set out several slices of bread, some softened butter, and the soup. She placed a cloth napkin on the tray and took it into the living room.

Anna Buffa was draped on an easy chair covered in brown chenille, one leg slung over the ottoman, the other foot on the floor. Her eyes were closed; her pale blue dress was hiked to the knees, and her lace collar was askew. Enza felt a moment of pity. Anna’s once-lovely face was now etched with lines of worry, its texture slack from age, and her once-black hair was streaked with white. Anna still managed to put on lipstick each morning, but by nightfall all that was left was a pale stain of tangerine, which made her look more haggard still.

“Your dinner, Signora.” Enza placed it carefully on the ottoman.

“Sit with me, Enza.”

“I have so much to do.” Enza forced a smile.

“I know. But sit with me.”

Enza sat down on the edge of the sofa.

“How is the factory?”

“Fine.”

“I should write to your mother,” Anna said.

Enza wondered what had brought on this civil tone and mood. She looked over at the whiskey glass and realized that Anna had already finished it. This would explain her sudden warmth.

“You should eat your soup,” Enza told her, placing a pillow behind the small of Anna’s back. This was the only pampering Anna had ever received, and she relished it.

Anna placed the napkin on her lap and slowly sipped the soup. “Delicious,” she said to Enza. Evidently, Anna's mood had mellowed in the glow of the amber booze.

“Thank you.”

Enza looked down at Anna’s swollen ankles. “You should soak your feet tonight, Signora.”

“The ankles are bad again.” Anna sighed.

“It’s the whiskey,” Enza said.

“I know. Wine is good for me, but whiskey is not.”

“Hard liquor has no place to go in the body.”

“How do you know this?” Anna’s dark eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“My mother always said that if you drink wine made from the grapes of your own vines, it can never hurt you. But we don’t have room on Adams Street for a trellis.” Enza smiled.

“Evangeline Palermo grows her own grapes and makes wine in Hazelet. She'll live to be a hundred. Watch,” Anna said bitterly. “Play me a record.”

Enza placed Enrico Caruso singing
Tosca
on the turntable.

“Don’t scratch it,” Anna barked.

Enza placed the needle gently on the outer groove, then lowered the volume dial. “Signora, tell me why you like the opera.”

“I had some talent myself,” Anna began.

“Why don’t you sing in church?” Enza asks.

“I’m better than that!” Anna hissed. “I can’t waste my talent in a church choir. So I don’t bother to sing at all.” She was as petulant as a spoiled girl.

Enza rose from the sofa, returning to the kitchen to finish her chores. She promised herself that she would never run a household like this one. Anna’s daughters-in-law took their meals upstairs at different times, and their respect for their mother-in-law was nonexistent.

Enza thought longingly of her home and how close she had been to her brothers and sisters. They had shared everything, meals, chores, and conversation. Even the mountain itself, with its majestic cliffs, rolling green fields, and well-worn trails, seemed to belong to them. The Ravanellis were truly a family; they didn’t simply share an address like the Buffas.

Enza’s eyes filled with tears whenever she thought of Schilpario. Her talks with her mother would go long into the night, and it surprised her to realize that Anna’s family never sought her out for company or conversation. Anna Buffa doesn’t know what she is missing, Enza thought. Or maybe she did. Perhaps that’s why she drank whiskey and played opera music so loudly. Anna Buffa wanted to forget.

Carla cleared the dishes from the garden table. She had served a feast of rigatoni in pork sauce, hunks of fresh buttered bread, a salad of fresh greens, and glasses of Remo’s homemade red wine under the old tree to Ciro and Luigi, who put in long ten-hour days without a break.

Remo roasted chestnuts on the grill. As they popped in the heat, bursting their glassy shells, he looked over at Ciro and Luigi, telling stories and making each other laugh. Ciro had seemed so much happier since Luigi arrived, as though his old friend breathed new life into him. Remo could see that Ciro hungered for the kind of friendship Luigi provided, one based upon shared memories and goals. Remo didn’t want to lose Ciro in the shop, and he figured the best way to keep his apprentice was to hire his friend.

“You know, Ciro, when you were looking at the leather samples, it got me to thinking.” Remo sat down. “We don’t necessarily need to go into women’s shoes just yet. It’s a good idea, but I see it further down the line,”

“I understand,” Ciro said, but there was no mistaking the quick flash of disappointment across his face.

“But we do need to expand our business, especially if I have to pay another salary.” Remo looked at Luigi.

Ciro beamed. “I’m listening,” he said.

“We need to take the Zanetti Shoe Shop to the job sites. Imagine if we had a cart near the Hell’s Gate bridge operation. You could make repairs on-site as well as take orders for new boots. With another pair of hands, we could get a real assembly line going here, delivering shipments of new goods right back to the job site.”

“We’d get the Greeks from Astoria, the Russians from Gravesend, the Irish from Brooklyn,” Ciro began. “They would all wear Zanetti boots. And then we’d move the cart around the city to the construction sites for more new customers. It’s a great idea.”

“Luigi can be in the shop with me while he trains, and you can be out in the field expanding the business. Eventually, you two can take over,” Remo continued. “The master steps aside, and the journeymen run the shop.”

“This is a great opportunity,” Luigi said. “What do you think, Ciro?”

“I like it,” Ciro said.

“What are you boys cooking up out here?” Carla asked.

“We’re about to put the Zanetti Shoe Shop on the move,” Ciro explained.

“Was anyone going to check with me?”

“Say hello to the new apprentice,” Ciro said. “You might want to ask the bank for an extra green bag, because this man is going to help you fill it.”

Carla beamed at the thought.

Enza finished the last of the dinner dishes, drying them carefully and placing them on the shelf. She went from room to room, collecting the soup bowls and breadbaskets set outside their doors by Anna’s daughters-in-law. When Enza returned from the night shift at dawn, the sink would be full of empty baby bottles, dirty plates, and glasses. After a long shift in the factory, Enza would have to boil the baby bottles, wash the dishes, and clean the kitchen all over again.

Enza packed a hard roll, a hunk of cheese, and an apple in her purse. She tiptoed through the house to the front door, past Signora Buffa, who snored in the bedroom, and let herself out, locking the door behind her.

She walked quickly through the dark streets of Hoboken, careful not to draw any attention to herself, not from the groups of men gathered on street corners, or from the women who sat on their stoops and fanned themselves in the night air.

Occasionally a young man would lean over a second-story balcony and whistle as she passed, and she would hear the laughter of his friends, which sent a fearful chill through her. Enza had never told her father that she worked the night shift. He would be concerned if he knew she walked the streets of Hoboken alone at night.

Enza had developed some tricks to keep safe. She would cross the street to walk near a cop on his beat, and when none could be seen, she would duck off to a side street when she sensed eyes upon her, waiting for the threat of danger to pass so she could continue the half mile undisturbed.

Meta Walker was the largest blouse factory in Hoboken. The rambling warehouse was three stories high, the first floor built of local sandstone blocks, the upper floors tacked on in shingled wood painted gray, as though a cheap paper party hat had been placed atop the stonework. Metal fire escapes snaked up the exterior, with square landings outside doors marked Exit. The runners often used the fire escapes to carry messages to the foreladies running the operators on their machines.

About three hundred girls worked in the plant, split in two shifts, keeping the factory in operation twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. The need for machine operators was constant, as was the turnover, making this plant a first stop for immigrant girls looking for a paycheck.

The factory produced various styles of ladies’ cotton blouses: button-down with round-necked collars, flat-placketed with ruffles on the bodice, lace-trimmed with square collars, shirtwaist-style with half-inch stand-up collars, and the popular tuxedo style, collarless, with a flat bib and a small series of buttons.

Enza gathered a dozen white cotton blouses, tied them together with a ribbon of cotton remnant from the cutting room floor, threw them into a canvas bin filled with twenty similar bundles, and wheeled the bin to finishing. She practiced her English aloud as she pushed the bin, because no one could hear her over the roar of the machines.

“Dago girl,” Joe Neal from the finishing department called out as Enza passed him. Joe Neal was the nephew of the owner. Sturdily built, around five foot ten, with pomade slicked through his thin brown hair, which was parted fashionably down the center, he grinned with the bright white teeth of the milk-fed American rich. He taunted the girls, and most were afraid of him. He strutted around the factory as if he owned it already.

“When you gonna go out with me?” Joe Neal hissed. He followed Enza as she pushed the bin.

Enza ignored him.

“Answer me, dago girl.”

“Shut up,” Enza said, strong and plain, as her friend Laura had taught her.

Joe Neal had worked in various departments throughout the factory, though he never lasted long. Enza was told by the other machine operators that Joe had been thrown out of military school, where he’d been sent to be straightened out. The girls warned Enza about him on the first day, and told her to avoid him. But this was impossible, since it was her job to deliver bundles to the finishing department.