The Queen of the Big Time (18 page)

“I brought you a present.” Renato lifts a satchel out of his father’s car, parked on the shore of Minsi Lake on the outskirts of Roseto. “You don’t have to go to college to read all the great books,” Renato begins. “Many intellectuals believe self-education is as valid as any degree from a university.”

The brown ducks make lazy
S
’s as they swim across the smooth surface of the lake. I dip my toe in the water. The summer sun is so hot today, the lake is like a bath. “Do we know any intellectuals who could verify this?”

“Very funny.” Renato pulls me down to the ground and onto his lap. He wraps his arms around me. “There are those who would say I am an intellectual.” He kisses me before turning his attention back to his satchel of books.

“We will begin with Dante’s
Inferno
, then we will read
The Confessions of Saint Augustine
and the Greeks: plays by Euripides, Aeschylus, and Socrates.”

“I don’t like plays.”

“How can that be? You like the picture show.”

“That’s different. They’re silent.”

“You should get used to words. Not just that sappy organ music they use to underscore the scenes.” Renato leans over and kisses me again, this time on the nose. “What happened to the farm girl who was hungry for knowledge?”

“She got a job in a mill,” I tell him wryly. “And she’s tired after a ten-hour workday.”

Renato opens Dante’s
Inferno
. “You’ll like this one. It’s about faith.”

“You think I’ll get some if I read it?”

“Maybe.”

“You really believe in the power of books, don’t you?”

“Whatever it is that you’re feeling, whatever it is you have a question about, whatever it is that you long to know, there is some book, somewhere, with the key. You just have to search for it.” Renato opens the book and gives it to me.

“I used to want to learn everything. But life is so complicated now.”

“So simplify. Who said that?”

“Who said what?”

“Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity.”

“Henry David Thoreau in
Walden.”

“Correct.” Renato could be a teacher. He certainly sounds like one.

“And Thoreau also said, ‘Beware all enterprises that require new clothes,’ and I think of that every time the truck leaves the Roseto mill with a shipment.”

Renato laughs. I bury my face in his shoulder. “You are so much more than a forelady at the Roseto Manufacturing Company,” he says.

“That’s true. I’m also your girl.” I lift my head onto his shoulder. “But you’ll leave someday, won’t you?” Renato squeezes me closer but does not answer. “Okay, if you won’t answer that, I will. I plan on
leaving you long before you leave me. I’ve learned to head off a problem by addressing it first. That’s a rule in the mill handed down from forelady to forelady since the first blouse was made.”

Renato laughs, and there is no sweeter sound in the world to me. I wonder if he knows that every time I make a joke, a little piece of my heart breaks off. It’s just self-defense. It seems whenever we get close, he leaves. From the first time I saw Renato, he seemed to swoop in, mesmerize me, and then leave without an explanation. When I’m with him and we’re happy and anything seems possible is the time when I’m most afraid of losing him. I have a feeling of dread that I cannot shake, even here in the sun on this clear summer day.

By August, the heat has made the mill unbearable. We’ve added more fans, but all they seem to do is push the hot air around in suffocating gusts. The combination of heat from the machines and the temperature outside makes for terrible work conditions in the mill. If I owned this factory, I wouldn’t operate it in this heat.

My girls try to maintain their usual pace, but they cannot. We are falling behind. I sit down at a machine to help the girls set cuffs. The blouse we are working on for this shipment is complicated. There are darts, a fluted hem, and a wide collar with a satin facing. We’re struggling with the complexity of the design, and the heat makes it worse.

I push the cuffs through the threader. “Miss Castelluca?” I look up at Mr. Jenkins. “We’re behind.”

“That’s why I’m pitching in. You should too. We’re short a body in pressing,” I tell him.

As quickly as Mr. Jenkins turns to go to pressing, the mill fills with black smoke. It happens so fast that by the time I stand up, I cannot see where it is coming from. The whirl of the machines stops, replaced with cries for help and the sound of metal work chairs overturning. Smoke seems to be coming from the cutting room. The workers try to run for the exit.

“Ladies! Get down! Crawl!” I drop to my knees. “Follow me! To the
back!” There is an emergency door out back where we load the truck. I push it open, then yell to the men to help the girls file out. Some girls have gone out the front, but most of them are stuck in their stations. In the din, workers have run and pushed the metal bins on wheels into the center aisle, crowding it, trapping the girls at their machines.

“Nella, get out of there!” Chettie yells from outside. She must have escaped out the front doors. I ignore her and go back into the mill. I hear the sounds of the fire truck on its way. I trip on what I think is a bolt of fabric, but it’s not, it’s Mr. Albanese. He has taken in too much smoke. “Help! Someone, over here, help!”

A man lifts me up by the waist and carries me to the open door, depositing me on the truck ramp. I look out in the field and begin to count heads. A lot of the girls have gotten out or been rescued by now, but some were overtaken by the smoke. Franco emerges down the ramp with Mr. Albanese. “Get him the tank!” Franco yells to the fire captain. “He’s not breathing.” Franco goes back in and returns carrying three more workers, one by one, to safety.

As the fire department douses the blaze, the smoke subsides enough that we can see what is happening. There must have been an electrical fire. Most of the wires in the mill were rigged quickly to accommodate more machines. We must have overloaded the system with the latest additions, and the fans to keep the air moving.

As I make the rounds through the girls, the gravity of what has happened begins to settle in, and some of the girls weep. I organize the girls by department to see who is missing. It appears that everyone got out.

I see Franco doubled over by the ramp, gasping for air. I go to him. “Come away from the building, Franco,” I tell him, putting my arm around his waist and leading him to the field. “Let me get you some water.”

By now word has spread of the fire, and many Rosetans have arrived
with buckets of cold water and cups to drink with. I dip into a bucket and give Franco a cup of water, which he guzzles. “What happened, Franco? Could you tell?”

“Too much power. The heat. The circuits blew. It started in the wall.”

I watch as the firemen finish their work. The smoke has subsided, revealing the charred walls and the dank smell of burnt silk and cotton. It’s frightening how fast it happened. Some days I could smell the electrical wires overloading with power, and we’d turn some of the fans off, but the building, with its old wooden frame and oiled floors, was bound to go up like a tinderbox. I see Mr. Jenkins standing with the fire chief, and I go to them.

“Is everyone all right?” Mr. Jenkins asks me.

“I think so. Our regulars are all accounted for, department by department.”

From this vantage point, I can see the damage to the structure more clearly. One side of the building is gone, and the rest ruined by smoke. I hear the muffled cries of the girls in the field, and I know some are crying because they were frightened, but most are devastated because their jobs are gone.

Chettie and I walk home to Dewey Street at nightfall.

“It’s not like I even ever liked that mill,” Chettie says, breaking a long silence between us.

“I know.”

“But when it’s gone …”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do?” Chettie asks. There’s no fear or self-pity in her voice. By now we are so used to dealing with bad breaks, we almost expect them.

“Jenkins will find another building.”

“Do you think so?”

“Absolutely.” I give Chettie a hug before she climbs her porch steps. “Jenkins won’t want to miss making money for long. Don’t worry.”

When I reach Alessandro’s house, I climb the porch steps slowly. Elena meets me in the doorway.

“Are you all right? I’ve been so worried about you and Chettie, and everyone.”

“This was a very bad day. But I’m okay. No one was seriously hurt.”

“Lavinia Spadoni said the factory is ruined.”

“We won’t be returning to that building, that’s for sure.”

“Nella, I have more bad news.”

“Is something wrong with the baby?” I ask, my pulse racing.

“No, no, Assunta’s fine. It’s Renato’s father. He died this afternoon.”

“I just saw him last night!” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Today we almost lost workers in the fire, but a couple of streets away, Renato was enduring a much greater loss.

“It was a heart attack, Nella. It was very sudden.”

Instead of going into the house and washing up, I turn around and walk down Garibaldi Avenue to Renato’s home. There is a small crowd on the porch. I greet them and go inside. As always, I’m surprised at how neat and clean the place is. Renato’s mother died years ago, and he’s an only child, so it’s only been the two of them for years, and yet the sparkling copper pots hang neatly in the kitchen, and the green plants flourish in the front windows. I hear Renato in the kitchen, so I follow his voice. He is standing by the sink with Father Impeciato. “Excuse me,” I say to them. “Renato, I’m so sorry.”

Renato embraces me. “I heard about the mill.”

“It was horrible.” I begin to cry. Finally, with his strong arms around me, the sadness and loss of the day overwhelm me. “I feel so silly crying when your papa—”

“I was with him.” Renato’s eyes fill with tears. “I was able to say good-bye. I thank God for that.”

For Nicola Lanzara’s funeral, Our Lady of Mount Carmel was filled to capacity. Renato delivered a eulogy that was so moving, even those who were not close to his father in life felt closer to him after hearing the inspiring words. I sat with Renato through the wake and at the funeral, and I hope I was of some comfort to him.

Renato said good-bye to his cousins from Philadelphia on the porch as I cleaned up the last of the dishes and glasses, taking them into the kitchen. The neighbors were all helpful with the dinner, and Renato was a gentleman throughout, tending to his guests as though they were invited to a feast, not a funeral.

“Don’t do another thing,” Renato says as he comes into the kitchen.

“I want to,” I tell him. I go to him and put my arms around him. He has cried here and there throughout the day, but as I hold him, he weeps. The harder he weeps, the closer I hold him. I hope that wherever Mr. Lanzara is, he knows that I will take good care of his son.

“I miss him already,” Renato says through his tears. “I loved him so much.”

“I know you did. And he knew it.”

“No, no, I never said it.”

“He knew.”

“I wish I had told him.”

“Renato, he
knew.”

“When Mama died, he never brought another woman around. One time I asked him why, and he said, ‘Out of respect for you. That was your mother. How could I bring another woman in here to replace her?’ ”

“He was a good man,” I say softly.

“Now I’m all alone.” Renato lets go of me and turns away, reaching in his pocket for his handkerchief.

“You are not alone. You have me,” I say. “Renato. Look at me.”

But he can’t.

“I’ll be okay,” he says and leaves the kitchen. I have a terrible moment
of not knowing what to do. Does he want me to stay? Or should I go home and give him some privacy? I long to hold him and comfort him, but he has pushed me away. He is so complex, and so often I don’t understand him. I feel inadequate, and yet I know he needs me. I go into the front parlor, but he isn’t there. I open the door gently and look out, but he’s not on the porch either. I turn and look up the narrow staircase to the second floor and see a light on in a room at the top of the stairs. “Renato?” I say quietly as I climb the stairs. He doesn’t answer. I follow the light to the bedroom and push the door open. Renato is sitting on the end of his bed with his head in his hands. He sobs, much like Papa did when Assunta died. It is from the gut, the place of deepest feeling. I cannot bear to see him suffering like this, and if I could, I would take on his pain so he would have it no longer. I climb across the bed and wrap myself around him. He doesn’t push me away. “I love you,” I tell him softly. He turns and faces me, taking me in his arms. “Let me love you.” He shakes his head no, but he doesn’t mean it. I kiss him tenderly on his face until the tears stop. His heart is pounding, and I kiss him until his breathing softens and he is calm. Then he kisses me tenderly, and in an instant, I want to give him everything I have. I would give him the world, I would give him his father back, I would make it so that he would never cry again. He unbuttons my dress; all the while I think, He must never be alone. He must have me all the days of his life. I think about Father Impeciato and the banns of marriage, and the rings, and the vows, and none of it, not one single element of it, matters to me in this moment. I love Renato Lanzara, I have from the first moment I saw him. I only wish I had more of myself to give; somehow my heart does not seem big enough to hold what I feel for him. He owns me, my first, last, and true love.