The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty (95 page)

The
Pomona
sailing out of New York was bound for Palermo and Naples. It was the warm September of a Holy Year. Along with the pilgrims and the old people going home, there rode in
turistica
half a dozen pairs of mothers and daughters—these seemed to take up the most room. If Mrs. C. Serto, going to Naples, might miss by a hair's breadth being the largest mother, there was no question about which was the largest daughter—that was hers. And how the daughter did love to scream! From the time the
Pomona
began to throb and move down the river, Gabriella Serto regaled the deck with clear, soprano cries. As she romped up and down after the other girls—she was the youngest, too: eighteen—screaming and waving good-by to the Statue of Liberty, a hole broke through her stocking and her flesh came through like a pear.

Before land was out of sight, everybody knew that whatever happened during the next two weeks at sea, Gabriella had a scream in store for it. It was almost as though their ship—not a large ship at all, the rumor began to go round—had been appointed for this. "Why do I have to be taken to Naples! Why? I was happy in Buffalo, with you and Papa and Aunt Rosalia and Uncle Enrico!" she wailed to her mother along the passages—where of course everybody else, as well as the Sertos, was lost.

"Enough for you it is
l'Anno Santo,
" said Mama. "Hold straight those shoulders. Look the others."

The others were going to pair off any minute—as far as pairing would go. There were six young girls, but though there were six young men too, they were only Joe Monteoliveto, Aldo Scampo, Poldy somebody, and three for the priesthood. As for Poldy, he was a Polish-American who was on his way now to marry a girl in Italy that he had never seen.

Every morning, to reach their deck, Mrs. Serto and Gabriella had to find their way along the whole length of the ship, right along its humming and pounding bottom, where the passage was wet (Did the ship leak? people asked) and narrow as a schoolroom aisle; past the quarters of the crew—who looked wild in their half-undress, even their faces covered with black—and the
Pomona
engines; and at last up a steep staircase toward the light. Gabriella complained all the way. Mrs. Serto, feeling this was the uphill journey, only puffed. On the long way back to the dining room—downhill—Mrs. Serto had her say.

"You saw! Every girl on ship is fat"—exactly what she said about school and church at home. "In
Napoli,
when I was a girl, your
Nonna
told me a hundred times, 'Little daughter: girls do well to be strong. Also, be
delicata.
' You wait! She'll tell you the same. What's the matter? You got pretty little feet like me." Mama framed herself in the engine-room door, and showed her shoe.

But not every girl coming into the dining room had to pass seven tables to reach her own, as Gabriella did—bouncing along sideways, with each table to measure her hips again as briskly as a mother's tape measure; while Joe Monteoliveto, for example, might be looking her way.

"You are youngest of six daughters, all beautiful and strong, five married to smart boys, Maria's Arrigo smart enough to be pharmacist. Five with babies to show. And what would you call every one those babies?"

The word rushed out. "Adorable!"

"
Bellissimo!
But you hang back."

"So O.K.! If you wouldn't follow me all the time!"

"I know the time to drop behind," said Mama sharply.

On deck all day, where she could see all that water, the smoother the ocean looked behind, the more apprehensive Gabriella felt; tourist deck faced backwards. She yelled that she wished the ship would turn around right where it was and take her back to the good old Statue of Liberty again. At that, Mama cast her eyes heavenward and a little to the left, like St. Cecilia on the cake plate at home, won on stunt night at the Sodality.

"Walk!" said the mothers to their daughters.

"You hear, Gabriella? Get up and walk!"

There was nowhere to go but in a circle—six of them walking arm-in-arm, dissolved in laughter; Maria-Pia Arpista almost had to be held up—especially when they wheeled at the turns and Gabriella gave her scream. For every time, there were the same black shawls, the same old caps, backed up against the blue—faces coming out of them that grew to be the only faces in the world, more solid a group than a family's, more persistent one by one than faces held fast in the memory or floating to nearness in dreams. On the best benches sat the old people, old enough to be going home to die—not noticing of the water, of the bad smells here and there, of where the warnings read "
Pittura Fresca,
" or when the loudspeaker cried "
Attenzione!
" and the others flew to the rail to learn the worst. They cared only for which side of the boat the sun was shining on. If they heard Gabriella screaming, it would be hard to tell. They could not even speak English.

On the last bench on one side two black men sat together by themselves. They never said a word, they did not smile. Their feet were long as loaves of bread, and black as beetles, and each pair pointed outward east and west; together their four feet formed a big black M, for getting married, set out for young girls to fall over.

"Why you put your tongue out those black people? Is that nice?" said Mama. "Signora Arpista, your Maria-Pia needs to sit down, look her expression."

But by the third day out, Maria-Pia walked with Joe Monteoliveto, and her expression had changed. So did Mama's—she stepped up and joined Maria-Pia's mama, a few paces behind the new couple's heels, where she would get in on everything.

Gabriella took a long running jump to the other side of the deck. And there, only a little distance away, stood Aldo Scampo, all by himself, as though the breezes had just set him down. He stood at the rail looking out, his rich pompadour blowing. The shadow of the upper deck hung over him like a big jaw, or the lid of a trunk, with priests on it.

As Gabriella drew near, slowly, as though she brought bad news, he leaned low on his elbows, watching the birds drop into the water where the crew, below, were shooting guns through the portholes. Except for white frown marks, Aldo's forehead was all bright copper, and so were his nose and chin, his chest, his folded arms—as if he were dressed up in somebody's kitchen dowry over his well-known costume of yellow T-shirt and old army pants. The story Mama had of Aldo Scampo was that he was unmarried, was
Californese,
had mother, father, sisters, and brothers in America, and his mother's people lived in Nettuno, where they partly owned a boat; but as he rattled around in a cabin to himself, the complete story was not yet known.

Pop—pop—pop.

These were the small, tireless, black-and-gold island birds that had kept up with their ship so far today that Gabriella felt like telling them, "Go home, dopes"—only of course, having followed for such a long way, by now they could never fly all the way back. ("
Attenzione!
" the loudspeaker had warned—all for some land you couldn't see, the Azores.) Another small body plummeted down before Aldo, so close he might have caught it in his hand. Did Aldo Scampo, mopping his radiant brow, know how many poor little birds that made?

Like a mind-reader, he turned brilliantly toward her; she thought he was going to answer with the number of birds, but when he spoke it was even more electrifying than an answer; it was a question.

"Ping-pong?"

She screamed and raced him to the table.

This must have been the very moment that Aldo Scampo himself gave something up. Until now he had not had more than a passing glance for the girls who went walking by in a row with their chocolate cigarettes in the air. Like Joe Monteoliveto before him, he had brooded over La Zingara, the popular passenger said to be an actress; there she was now, further down the rail, talking to an almost
old
man. As Aldo and Gabriella pounded past her, La Zingara—thin, but no one could say how young—leaned back into a life preserver as though it were a swing. Her lips, moving like a scissors, could be read: she was talking about the Jersey Highway.

While Aldo went begging the balls from the children, Gabriella seized her paddle and beat the table like an Indian drum. In a moment, many drew near.

Up to now, Gabriella's only partner had been a choice between a boy of nine, who had since broken his arm and would have to wear a sling to see the Pope, and the Polish-American fellow, who was engaged. Both, of course, had beaten her—but not as she would be beaten today! And her extra-long skirt, made by Mama in a nice strong red for the trip, rocked on her like a panoply as she readied herself for the opening ball, and missed it.

Everybody cheered. Even if she did not miss the ball, Gabriella was almost certain to fall down; finally, rushing in an ill-advised arc, she did collide with a priest, a large one, who was down from above to see how things in
turistica
were going. He rolled away in his skirts like a ball of yarn and had to be picked up by two of the three for the priesthood, while Gabriella clapped her hands to her ears and yelped like a puppy.

Everybody had begun to wonder if Gabriella could help screaming—especially now, after three days. It was true her screams were sometimes justified, out on a ship at sea, and always opportune—but there were also screams that seemed offered through the day for their own sake, endeavors of pure anguish or joy that youth and strength seemed able to put out faster than the steady, pounding quiet of the voyage could ever overtake and heal.

Only her long brows were calm in her face with its widened mouth, stretched eyes, and flying dark hair, in her whole contending body, as though some captive, that had never had news of the world, land or sea, would sometimes stand there and look out from that pure arch—but never to speak; that could not even be thought to hear.

The evening after her overthrow at ping-pong, the dining room saw Gabriella come to the door and for a breath pause there. There was an ineffable quality about Mrs. Serto's daughter now. An evening after a storm comes with such bright drops—so does a child whose tantrum is over, even the reason for it almost, if not quite, forgotten. Through large, oval eyes whose shine made them look over-forgiving, she regarded the dining room now. And as she came through the door, they saw appearing from behind her Aldo Scampo, almost luminous himself in a clean white shirt.

As she and Aldo started hand in hand across the room, there was a sudden "
Tweeeeet!
" Papa, an old man from the table farthest back in the corner, blew a tin whistle whenever he felt like it—his joke and his privilege. Immediately everybody laughed.

Was it on every boat that tried to cross the ocean that some old fellow and his ten-cent whistle alerted the whole assembly at life's most precious moments? Papa was an outrageous, halfway dirty, twice married old man in an olive-green sweater who at each meal fought for the whole carafe of wine for himself and then sent the waiter for another. On top of his long head rose a crest of grizzly hair. A fatherly mustache, well-stained, draped itself over the whistle when he blew it. Except for one old crippled lady in this room, he was surely the only Italian in the world who could cross the ocean without suffering for it at all. His black eyes were forever traveling carelessly beyond his own table. And just when it was least expected, when it was least desired, when your thoughts were all gentle and reassured and forgiving and triumphant—then it would be your turn: "
Tweeeeet!
"

Gabriella and Aldo, after stopping dead in their tracks—for there was something official about the sound—marched to their separate tables like punished children. But by the time Gabriella had reached hers safely, she was able to lift her face like a dish of something fresh and delicious she had brought straight to them; and Mrs. Serto smiled her circle round: Mr. Fossetta, for Bari; Poldy, who was engaged, and Mr. Ambrogio, for Rome.

"Dressed up!" said Mama, a gesture of blessing for all falling from her plump little hand. Mama was even more dressed up. They had on silk blouses.

"We've been strolling, with Maria-Pia and Joe!" And Gabriella took her seat on Mama's right hand.

Tonight, the dining room felt, the missing sixth should have been at that table. Between Poldy and Mr. Ambrogio waited the vacant chair and spotless napkin of one assigned who had never come. Even if appetite had gone, he should have shown his face to complete the happiness of a mother.

Later that very night, Gabriella was fallen against Mrs. Serto on the rearmost bench on deck, trying not to watch the flagpole ride, while at gentle intervals her mother gave her a little more of the account of the bride's dress reported to be traveling on this ship in the Polish-American's cabin. Without those screams, the
Pomona
sailed in a strange, almost sad tranquillity under the stars, as in a trance that might never be broken again. So there had come a night, almost earlier than they had expected, when they all had their chance to feel sorry for Gabriella.

Between tea and dinnertime next day, everybody who was able was sitting about on the benches enjoying the warm sea. All afternoon, with the sun going down on their backs, they had been drawing nearer and nearer the tinted coast of Spain. It grew long, pink, and caverned as the side of a melon. Chances were it would never come close enough for them to see much: they would see no face. But to Gabriella, the faces here on deck appeared bemused enough. Beside her, sitting up on their bench, Mama seemed to be asleep, with Mrs. Arpista, beyond her, also asleep; the two maternal heads under their little black buns nodded together like twin buoys in the waves.

Only the two black men looked the same as always. Not yet had they laughed, or asked a single question. Not yet had they expressed consternation at mealtime, or a moment's doubt about the course of the ship. Their very faith was enough to put other passengers off.

Aldo Scampo, like a man pining to be teased, was reading. He lay sprawled in the solitary deck chair—the one that the steward had opened out and set up in the center of the deck to face everybody, and labeled "Crosby"—very likely the name of the unattached lady who could not speak a word of Italian. All afternoon Aldo had held at various angles in front of his eyes a paper-back book bought on board,
The Bandit Giuliano, Dopo Bellolampo.
Or else he got up and disappeared into the public room to drink cherry soda and play cards with three little gray fellows going to Foggia.