Lucia, Lucia by Adriana Trigiani
“Lucia! Wake up!” Mama shakes me.
“What is it?”
“Get dressed. Hurry!”
I look at the clock. It’s a quarter to five in the morning. “What’s going on?”
“The baby!”
I hear Mama’s footsteps click down the stairs. I jump into my slacks and sweater from the day before, forgetting my socks, and run down the stairs. Papa is waiting by the door. Mama is putting on her coat and sobbing uncontrollably. I pull on the boots that I left near the bench last night, grab my coat, and follow my parents out into the street.
“What happened? Papa? Mama?”
“She’s gone. The baby is gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean?”
“She died.” My mother sobs. “Lucia, she died.”
I don’t believe it. We find a cab on Hudson Street, and the driver gets us to Saint Vincent’s quickly. Mama has not stopped crying. Papa holds on to her, but she is inconsolable. I’m certain there’s been a terrible mistake. I held the baby in my arms. She was fine. What could possibly have gone wrong?
Instead of waiting for the elevator, we find the stairwell to the maternity ward. We run down the hallway to Rosemary’s room, but it is empty. A nurse directs us to the room where Maria Grace was taken. Through the glass I see my brother and his wife holding each other. A doctor stands close by. We push the door open. Mama is screaming now. Papa tries to calm her down, but nothing he says can make her stop.
The expression on Rosemary’s face is so devastating that I have to look away. Roberto is crying, but the tears are of frustration—he doesn’t understand. None of us does. I go to the doctor and grab his arm. “What happened to the baby?” I ask him.
The doctor has already been through all this with Rosemary and Roberto, and I’m sure he’ll have to go through it again when the Lancelattis get here from Brooklyn, but he explains everything patiently. “The nurse called me to the floor. Maria Grace was having trouble breathing. I checked her thoroughly and found that her heart rhythm had slowed. I ordered oxygen, but she went into cardiac arrest anyway. Her heart failed. We tried to revive her, but nothing worked. I can offer you no reason for something like this. She was a small baby, but that didn’t have anything to do with this. I believe she had a congenital condition, a weakened heart from birth, so weak that there was nothing we could have done to save her.”
Roberto lunges at the doctor, but my father intercedes and holds Roberto tightly. “My son,” he says. “Son.” And Papa begins to cry.
“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” the doctor says.
Mama holds Rosemary, whose arms are stiff at her sides. She squeezes her eyes shut as if trying to change the picture of what has happened, hoping that this is a dream. Maria Grace Sartori died at 3:32 a.m. on February 23, 1951. She did not live two weeks.
If I live to be an old lady, I will never experience anything worse than the funeral of my niece. Each word Father Abruzzi utters at the altar of Our Lady of Pompeii in the Mass of the Resurrection sounds like a lie. Heaven, the peace that lives in the heart of Christ for those who believe in Him, and the idea that the baby is safe in the loving arms of the Blessed Lady seem like empty promises made to people in a hopeless state. I don’t believe any of them. It is so cruel when a child dies, and adding to the horror, the random blame begins. Who is at fault? The doctor? The hospital? The mother and her milk? The circumstances of Maria Grace’s conception? Oh, the guessing that goes on, trying to understand the will of God.
At the end of the funeral Mass, our families walk out behind the casket. I can’t leave my pew. When Orlando reaches for my hand, I pull it away and shake my head; I want no part of the recessional. I can’t bear to look at Rosemary as she walks behind her daughter, knowing that she can never hold her in her arms again. Nor can I stand to see Roberto, who blames himself, certain that some defect in his character made God take away his precious child because he was not worthy of her.
Mama prays, and Papa does, too. I can’t. I sit in the pew and wait for everyone to leave. I don’t want to listen to words of comfort, and I can’t offer any. When the last of the mourners are outside on the sidewalk, I look up at the altar, covered in a haze from the incense.
The past couple of days have been so horrible, I’ve decided I will never have a baby. I couldn’t risk this happening to my little girl. I told Papa, and he said, “You can’t do that, Lucia. It’s not your decision, it’s God’s.” But it seems to me that if God made the decision to take this baby, He cannot be trusted. I am haunted by how Maria Grace felt in my arms. The newness of her was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I feel a hand on my shoulder, but I don’t turn to see who it is. I can’t.
“I’m sorry, Lucia,” Dante says in a whisper. I reach up to take his hand. He comes to sit next to me. He puts his arm around me, and I cry. “What a terrible, terrible loss,” he says.
“I’m afraid Rosemary and Roberto will do something to themselves. They can’t bear to look at each other. We were so happy when she was born. I don’t understand why this happened. For what? Why?”
“Maybe the baby came to bring everyone together.”
“But why was she taken, when she brought so much joy?”
“I don’t know, Lucia.”
“Nobody does. That’s what makes this so horrible. There isn’t any sane reason for it. Dante, can you think of any reason why this should have happened?”
“I can’t. There is none.” Dante takes out his handkerchief and wipes away my tears. “Your brother and sister-in-law need you. You’ve got to be strong. I know you can do it,” he says. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.”
The church is empty, but the crowd on the sidewalk is still there, comforting Rosemary and Roberto and embracing my parents and brothers. I hold Dante’s hand as he walks me through the doors and out into the sunlight. Ruth steps forward and hugs me. Behind her I see Delmarr, Helen, and Violet, who are every bit as devastated as I would be if this terrible thing had happened to one of them.
It is a cold day, with mounds of gray slush from the last snowstorm piled in the gutters. How ugly the Village looks, how rude the horns blaring in the traffic jam, the mess. Where are all the people going, anyway? Don’t they know what we have lost?
The wind cuts through me. I sob from the pit of my stomach, not caring who hears my weeping. I lean against Dante and give him all of my grief. I’m only twenty-six years old, and in one moment this exquisite world, with its possibilities and joyous details, went from a lustrous valley to a dark pit. Maria Grace took all the beauty with her.
I look up and see Dante’s mother, his father, and his brothers and sisters. They encircle me and hold me without saying a word. I feel their strength, and I am not ashamed to take what I need. Sometimes when the worst happens, the only people who truly understand are the ones who have known you since you were small. The DeMartinos were practically family, and they know what to say and do.
Dante helps me into the hearse to travel with my family to the cemetery in Queens, where the baby will be buried in the Sartori plot. “I’ll follow you out there,” Dante says. Before he closes the door, he reaches out and takes Roberto’s hand. Roberto pulls Dante inside and embraces him, weeping on his shoulder. Dante looks at me and lets my brother cry for a few moments. Finally, Papa puts his arms around Roberto, and Dante goes.
Dante comes and stays with me through the burial at the cemetery, which is worse than the funeral, if that’s possible. It is so bitterly cold that we could hardly stand outside. The priest says his final prayers, but Rosemary will not let go of the casket to put it in the ground. We don’t know what to do. Roberto kneels and joins her, and for a long time, both of them hold on to Maria Grace. Orlando and Angelo get down on their knees and help Roberto and Rosemary stand. I look around for Exodus, but he is over on the road with his back to us, his shoulders heaving as he weeps.
In the days that follow Maria Grace’s death, we are like ghosts in our house. There is
At the one-week anniversary of Maria Grace’s funeral, there’s a knock at my bedroom door.
“Hi, honey.” Dante opens the door. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
“So, this is your room,” Dante says, drinking in the details. He looks at my bed as though he has imagined me there, or imagined himself there with me, then he turns away in embarrassment. “It’s exactly as I pictured it.”
“Really? I always thought if a man laid eyes on my canopy bed, he’d burst into flames like Saint Lorenzo.” I pat the bed next to me, inviting him to sit down.
Dante sits. “So far, so good.”
“How do you like it?”
“It looks like a princess who likes to read and sew lives up here.” Dante takes my hand. “Honey, I’m worried about you. You need to go outside.”
I gaze out the window and think about going outside. Every day I try to go, and every day I stay in my room.
“The longer you wait, the worse it will be. Come on. I’ll take you.”
Dante sees my suede loafers by the vanity. He brings them to me, then kneels and puts them on my feet. He stands, gently pulls me off of the bed, and gives me a hug. He walks me to the door and puts his arm around me as we descend the stairs. When we get to the entry hall, he helps me into my coat and wraps a scarf around my neck. Then he takes my hand and opens the door. I follow him out onto our stoop.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he says, putting his arm over my shoulder as we walk.
I look back at my house. “It’s so quiet in there.”
“I know. It’s very strange.” Dante takes my hand as we head toward Grove Street. I stop and turn him to me and put my hands on the lapels of his coat.
“Dante, thank you for being there for all of us. I don’t know how to repay you. I don’t think there is any way.”
Dante puts his arms around me. “You’re family, Lucia.”
“Almost was.”
“You’ll always be my girl. You were from the first moment I saw you. You were sitting in church with your brothers. You were eight years old, and I was twelve, and I thought, I hope she waits for me. Lucia, I’ll wait forever if I have to.”
Dante pulls me close. We stand by the wrought-iron gate in front of the McIntyres’ brownstone. It’s the very spot where he kissed me for the first time when I was fifteen. I wonder if he remembers. He leans in and kisses me softly on each cheek and then finds my mouth. I’m so sad from all that’s happened that I fall into this familiar place like the old chenille pillows I’ve had on my bed since I was a girl. I wonder how many times he kissed me during our time together. A thousand? More? How many times have I buried my face in his neck and breathed in the smell of his skin?
“You must hate me for the way I broke off our engagement,” I say.
“How could I hate the girl I used to stare at in church?”
“Well, I was staring back. I thought you were the best-looking older man I ever saw.” Dante laughs and takes my hand, and we walk for a long time in silence. The only people in the world who have known me longer than Dante are my own family. “Dante . . .” I say after a while.
“You don’t have to say anything, Lucia,” he tells me. “I understand.”
The only thing that could get me back out into the world is the thought of returning to work. I miss my friends and the comfort of our routine in the Custom Department. I’ve taken two weeks off, something I was able to do only because Hilda Cramer was in Paris for the runway shows and had no idea who was in the shop and who wasn’t. Now Hilda’s back, and I’m ready to return to my routine. My room at home was beginning to feel a little like a prison.
By my desk is a rolling rack of debutante gowns to hem. As I flip through them, I see Helen has pinned them up nicely. I take the first white silk shantung gown off the hanger and fit it onto the mannequin. I get out my needle and thread and begin to stitch, following the perfect line of pins.
How can I describe how much I love to sew? It’s as though my hands have known what to do from the first moment I held a needle. My left hand pulls the edge of the fabric taut while my right hand pedals in and out with the thread. I’m so good at it, and I’ve done it for so long, that the tiny stitches are invisible. Hems were the hardest thing for me to learn. It takes precision to keep the hem even as you sew, and a lopsided hem ruins an entire garment. Nonna Sartori used to say to me, “No one has to know how many times you rip out the hem.” Sometimes I ripped out a hem fifty times to get it right. Now it’s second nature. I get it right the first time.
Ruth bursts in the Hub and makes a beeline for me. “He’s here! Talbot. He’s on his way in.”
“So?” I ask calmly, without taking my eyes off the hem.
“If you want to skedaddle, you’ve got time.”
“If he’s coming to see me, I’m ready for him,” I tell her.
Ruth sits down at her drawing table and waits, keeping her eyes on the doors. “He’s in,” she whispers. I don’t look up. I keep my eyes on the hem.
“Hello, Lucia. How are you?” John Talbot asks.
“I’m better. Thank you for the lovely flowers you sent. They were beautiful.”
“It was a small thing, but I wanted you to know I was thinking of you . . . and your family.”
“It was very kind.”
“I want to explain something,” he begins.
Ruth clears her throat, picks up a sketch, and goes into Delmarr’s office.
I sense a big windup for a dissertation about why John chose Amanda Parker over me, but the truth is, I understand it. As much as I may aspire to be a part of the world I make the costumes for, there are certain elements of high society that I find repugnant. I could not live by their code. Everyone knows that marriage has a different meaning above Thirty-fourth Street. Affairs are tolerated, and bluebloods are loyal to a family crest instead of the bond between a man and a woman. I may like the lifestyle, but I don’t approve of the morals. I think more of myself than that. “Please, John, I don’t need an explanation. I believe that you should see whomever you like. And good luck to you.”
“I broke off with her, Lucia. I don’t want Amanda. I want you.”
It seems as though Papa and his cousin have written hundreds of letters back and forth, planning our August holiday in the Veneto. Cousin Domenic and his wife, Bartolomea, sent Rosemary and Roberto a beautiful icon, a silver picture of the Blessed Lady, when Maria Grace died. Ro keeps it on her nightstand and prays her rosary before it, begging for strength.
“I have an idea,” Papa says to me as I help him count the change at the store. “I’m going to convince Rosemary and Roberto to come to Italy with us. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a great idea.”
“A change of scenery might help them.” Papa lowers his voice. “How do you think Rosemary is doing?”
“I don’t know. She seems a little better sometimes, and then she starts to cry and she can’t stop. Mama tries to console her, but it’s so hard.”
“I’m going to lock up,” Papa tells me, and starts his nightly ritual. Since I was a girl, I loved to be in the store at closing time, to watch him put a final mist on the fresh vegetables, feed the “mouser” cat, Moto, and turn out the lights, starting from the back of the store to the front.
“Dante stopped by today,” Papa says casually.
“How is he?” Since John Talbot’s slow return to my life, Dante has slipped away again.
“He’s all right. He wonders why you won’t see him.”
I can’t believe Dante confided in my father! I haven’t said a word to Pop about him.
“And don’t get mad at him,” Papa goes
“Why would you ask?”
Papa is spraying the vegetables and doesn’t turn around. “Maybe I like him. And maybe I think he’s right for you.”
“Oh, Pop.”
I wish I could tell my father why I’ve avoided Dante since the night he kissed me. I felt myself fall back into the well of him, and then the same old feeling of being trapped returned.
“Papa, do you like John Talbot?”
“Why do you ask?” Papa walks over to the counter. “You aren’t seeing him again, are you?”
“We go to lunch.” I sound vague, but the truth is, John and I see each other most days. We have lunch, go for a drive, or visit his mother. He has been proving to me that I am the only girl in his life.
“He’s not for you, Lucia.”
“Papa!”
“You asked me! So I tell you the truth. Mr. Talbot is a mystery to me. And I don’t understand what he does with his time,” he says as he takes off his apron, folds it, and places it under the counter. Then he comes around and stands right in front of me.
“He’s a businessman, like you,” I assert.
“No, he’s a snappy dresser with a fancy car who seems to have big plans and no job.”
“I like a man who presents himself well and has polish. It shows a certain confidence. As for his plans, he has big dreams, and you of all people, Papa—someone who came to this country with nothing and built a business—should understand aiming high.”
“Lucia, watch what men do, not what they say.” Papa places his hands on the counter and leans back against it.