The Queen of the Big Time (16 page)

Mr. Jenkins shakes his head ruefully but says, “We have a deal.”

I leave Mr. Jenkins’s office, and as soon as I do, I begin to shake. It’s cold and drafty in the entry area, but it’s not the temperature. I’m shaking from fear. I could have lost my job in there, but I came away with a raise. Wait until I tell Elena. Papa and Mama will be so proud.

Franco Zollerano comes from the factory with a group of machinists. They look at me, then bid Franco good-bye and go outside. He smiles at me.

“Are you ever going to return my handkerchief?” he asks as he wipes his hands on a rag.

“Who sees you?” I tease him back. Now that I’ve gotten a promotion, I’m a first-class smart aleck.

He smiles. “I’m around.”

“Not that I can ever tell.”

“You’re keeping tabs on me?” He looks at the floor and then drinks me in from the tip of my shoes to the top of my head.

I am not going to let him intimidate me. “No, if I were keeping tabs on you, I would make it my business to know where you go.”

“Good point.” He laughs, and I see nice white teeth. The front teeth overlap a bit, but it’s charming. “I work at all Jenkins’s mills. So I’m over in Jersey quite a bit. That’s maybe why you’ve missed me.”

“No one said anything about missing you.”

“You will, though.” Franco stuffs the rag into the back pocket of his coveralls and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m Franco Zollerano. I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced.”

“We haven’t. I’m Nella Castelluca.” I extend my hand; he does not take it. He shows me the grease on them instead. His hands are big, too big for a man who must deal with intricate machines. “You’re a machinist.”

“Yep. And you?”

“Pressing. Then collar setting. But I just made forelady.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a kid.”

“Mr. Jenkins doesn’t think so.”

“He must have gotten you cheap.”

“No, he didn’t. Of course, I knew what to ask for.” Why am I getting into a discussion about my pay with a machinist? What does he know about running a factory?

“Well, good then. Congratulations.” Franco turns to go.

“Hey,” I call after him.

He looks at me.

“You don’t like management?”

“Good guess.” Franco pushes the door open and goes outside. As it closes, a cold draft of air hits me hard and I shiver. I feel badly that I bragged about my new job. I sounded impudent. But there is something about this man that makes me want to one-up him. I don’t like his cocky attitude, not one bit.

Elena has prepared the house and baby for Alessandro’s homecoming. She has cooked a pot of sauce, baked bread, and made a cream pie. She has scrubbed the house from top to bottom, changed, washed, and pressed all the linens, and chopped plenty of firewood for the weekend. Mama, Papa, Roma, and Dianna will stay in town with us. Mama is very nervous about this homecoming.

“Mama, why do you think Alessandro would reject his own daughter?” I ask her as we set the table.

“Men don’t take to babies, especially girls, without the mother’s coaxing.”

“Even Papa?”

“He kept his distance until Assunta was nearly one year old. Then he realized what he was missing, and when the rest of you came along, he held you from the start. That’s why I worry about Alessandro. After all, he can’t take care of the baby himself.”

“I will take care of her. Always,” Elena promises. “If he doesn’t want her, she can come with us on the farm.”

“A child should be with her father.”

“Only if he loves her,” Elena says quietly.

“They’re here!” Roma says from her perch in the front window. Papa walks with a permanent limp since his accident, so Alessandro helps him navigate the icy sidewalk. Dianna opens the door for them. Mama, Roma, and I go to Alessandro. He embraces us. “Where is she?” Alessandro asks softly. He takes off his hat and coat. We can see his face is pale, and his eyes are red from crying. Papa wipes his eyes with a handkerchief. “Elena?” Mama calls out.

Elena comes from the kitchen with a pink bundle. Alessandro opens his arms, and Elena hands him the baby. She fusses with the blanket. Alessandro looks down at her; her pink face and black hair are like his own. His eyes fill with tears.
“Bella.”
He kisses her.

“Thank you for taking such good care of her,” Alessandro says to Elena. He kisses the baby tenderly. Mama need not worry: Alessandro will be as good a father to his daughter as he was a husband.

“She needs a name.” A tear slides down Elena’s cheek.

“I think she should be named for her mother.…” Alessandro begins to cry, and the baby coos as if to comfort him. He stops his tears and looks at the baby intently. The baby looks back at him, as if she is waiting for him to say something. “Yes, she should be called Assunta.”

For the first time since my sister died, my mother lets out a low, painful moan of despair. Papa holds Mama tightly and she begins to sob. Her loss is now real. Until Bambina had a name, her own daughter was not really gone. Alessandro holds his baby close. “She’s here,” Alessandro whispers. “This is my wife. Her eyes.”

Mama turns away. “Mama, don’t cry,” Alessandro says. He walks over to her and puts the baby in her arms. Mama kisses Assunta. Alessandro puts his arms around his daughter and her grandmother.

CHAPTER SIX

M
any years ago, before Father Impeciato took over Our Lady of Mount Carmel, there was a priest, Father Pasquale DeNisco, who turned Roseto from a quarry camp into a beautiful village. He died in 1911, one year before Roseto became incorporated as a borough, but the impact of his leadership is everywhere. He knew the Italians needed to learn English, so he taught language classes, and then instructed them on how to become U.S. citizens. He organized a branch of the American Federation of Labor as the blouse mills cropped up all over town. Father DeNisco organized Roseto’s first sport teams, the Roseto Coronet Band, the Philodramatic Club, and the first volunteer fire company.

Each June, Father DeNisco gave a cash prize of ten dollars in gold to the family who planted the prettiest flower gardens. The prize is long gone, but the habit of growing glorious flowers has remained with the people. As I walk to work down Dewey Street, the lilac bushes, orange trumpet vines climbing trellises, and hanging baskets dripping with fragrant white flox are a testament to his legacy.

Elena made me a new summer work dress, a sleeveless sky-blue
sheath with a matching smock over it. The smock has a white collar and satin bow, very chic. Elena sewed two deep pockets on the front, which are useful for the endless supply of tags and pins that I need all day.

Last week my workers produced over a thousand bundles. I got a nickel for each bundle over a thousand. It will probably be the money I am most proud of earning in my entire life. It was the money Jenkins thought I would never make, so the moment was that much sweeter when I marched into his office and showed him the tags from the overrun.

When I took over from Elmira Clements, with Chettie’s advice, I learned how the workers felt about conditions at Roseto Manufacturing, and slowly I’ve begun to make some improvements. Mr. Jenkins’s chief concern is profit, of course, but I have learned that if the workers are happy, production naturally increases. It’s my job to make conditions better.

Once I reorganized the machines, the work output increased. When I was a machine operator, it was hard to see the stitching in the overhead light, so I had lamps installed over each machine. This made a tremendous difference in the quality of the work. I made the sewing machine tables adjustable so they are comfortable for everyone, from the most petite to the tallest girl in the shop. I ordered special work gloves that go to the elbow for the workers in the steam area. My arm will always have a scar from the accident I had on my first day. I want my employees to be safe.

In a couple of months, I will mark my one-year anniversary working here, and my six-month anniversary as forelady. As the weeks have gone by, I’ve thought about school less and less. Sometimes I feel a pang over what I’m missing, and sad about not becoming a teacher. I wonder what it would be like to teach a classroom of children eager to learn, but I use those skills when I’m teaching the girls a new operation in the mill. My work life is gratifying; I never think about whether I like what I’m doing or not, I just concentrate on doing it
well. I am at my best when I have a purpose. The goal of taking care of my family is met every week when I pick up my paycheck. That feels good.

Alessandro helps Papa out on the farm, while Elena and I stay in town with the baby. Our brother-in-law makes it into town three nights a week. There’s always talk about selling the house on Dewey Street and moving us back to the farm. But the house in town makes my work life so much easier, and my salary is too important to jeopardize with a three-mile walk in bad weather that might make me miss the start bell. Another reason to hold on to the house is that Dianna will come into town next year to attend Columbus School.

My younger sisters will not have to work at the blouse mill as Assunta, Elena, and I have. Financially, our family is doing better now, so there is no need to sacrifice their educations for the extra income they could bring in. I know a lot of that has to do with how hard I work and save. The more effort I put in at work, the easier it is on Mama and Papa. I used to put my ambition in books; now I put it in productivity at the mill.

Bright and early Monday morning, Chettie meets me on the street and we walk to the factory. “Anthony Marucci has gotten off the dime and asked me out. He’s going to take me to the show this Saturday in Easton. Wanna come?”

“I don’t think so. Who wants a third wheel on a date?”

“We could get someone to go with you.”

“No thanks.”

“Come on. Anthony has lots of friends. Franco Zollerano thinks you’re cute.”

“No, thank you. That guy is so full of himself.”

“That’s just the way fellas are,” Chettie replies. She always thinks the best of people. “He’s just trying to impress you.”

“Boys. You can keep them. What a waste of time.”

Chettie gives me a knowing look. “Well, I heard one of the girls talking in line about Renato. His father says he’s coming home today.”

News of Renato’s return sends a rush through me. I wonder why he didn’t mention a visit home in his last letter. Maybe he wanted to surprise me. I haven’t seen him since the Ferris wheel ride, but we’ve been writing back and forth since he sent me that beautiful letter about Assunta.

Chettie gets in line to punch her time card while I go into the office to sign in. Jenkins has a new policy with the foreladies and foremen: he wants us to sign in and give a brief description of the job at hand that day with projections of output. I always try to beat the figures I put down on the sheet; it’s a little game I play with myself.

Today the truck comes from New York to pick up our shipment. I will stay late and oversee the load-in. Mr. Jenkins used to stay for the truck, but no longer. He trusts me to count every blouse for the buyer.

When the final bell rings, the factory empties in seconds. I reposition the large fans in front of the windows. I’ve found that the fans facing out helps keep down the haze from the filaments somewhat. In the heat, it’s harder to control, but if I position them this way at night, the factory is cooler in the morning. I lower the lights in the main factory room and go to check the cutting room.

I am surprised to see Franco working late. He seems to slip in and out, of course, since machinists go from factory to factory fixing equipment. Days go by without an appearance at Roseto Manufacturing. Sometimes I find myself looking for him, and then I remember Renato. No one can compare with Renato, especially not a machinist with a smart remark.

Franco has taken apart the spreader. It sits in small pieces on the cutting table while he works.

“What happened?” I ask him.

“The wheel isn’t working properly. I’m replacing it.”

I start to go. “Well, good luck.”

“I like your dress,” he says, looking me over.

I fold my arms across my chest. “Thank you. My sister made it. The last thing I want to do when I go home is sew.”

“That’s one of the hazards of working in a blouse factory.”

“I guess. But I bet I wouldn’t feel that way about cream puffs if I worked at Marcella’s bakery.”

“Probably not.” He laughs.

Franco lifts the blade off the spreader, pulling out the gears. I don’t know how he gets his big hands around those tiny joints and screws. The top half of his coveralls dangles around his waist. He wears a sleeveless undershirt, and I can’t help but notice how broad his shoulders are, and how defined the muscles in his arms. He is built beautifully; maybe it’s his height, or the perfect proportions of his face and shoulders. He could almost be a sheik, I think to myself.

“Do you need something?” he asks, looking up.

“No. No. I was just watching your … work.” I don’t want Franco to think I’m looking at his body. What kind of girl does that? Not a girl who goes to Mass every Sunday, I’m certain.