Unforgotten (26 page)
Life is a bowl of cherries to Rudy Vallee.
But he didn’t pick them; he didn’t grow them.
His love and labor didn’t sustain and nurture them.
Ah, to live and laugh at it all.
I
n the city of Toledo a crowd has blocked the streets surrounding the city hall. “What’s happening?” I ask as Marco stops in the street and steps up onto the running board to see.
“Some sort of protest.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t think it’s a labor strike. There are women and children marching. Probably the residents of a hobo camp trying to be heard.”
I climb out and move with him through the crowd to see the marchers. Some carry signs; some carry children. Looking at their faces, I don’t feel so alone in my grief.
“How will this help?”
“It won’t.”
“Then why are they marching?”
He shrugs. “Can’t think what else to do, I guess.”
I shake my head. Passing through the industrial cities of the North, I’ve seen conditions far worse than any I imagined. “What happened, Marco? How did things get so bad?”
He explains, as Papa never would, the rampant speculation that led to overinflated stock values, and the government’s idea that liquidation, regardless of the human cost, would correct the crashed market and encourage new investment. But looking at the marchers, I wonder how anyone can ignore the human cost and, worse, blame the unfortunate for their plight. These people are no more responsible than I for their situation, yet I see them spit on. It could be me. Any one of us. If I could lose everything in one night …
“What will happen to my home, Marco?”
“I don’t know.”
Catching a sob in my throat, I whisper, “I can’t go back.” I know this already, but it hurts when Marco agrees. I look back at the marchers. “I know how these people feel.”
He reaches over and holds my hand.
I turn with eyes awash. “You think I’m ungrateful.”
“No.”
“You’ve done so much.”
“Antonia …” His voice is soft, embarrassed.
“You’ve risked your life.” I sniff. “Your job. Were you finished?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“But were you?”
“Yes. Yes, it was finished.”
I face him. “Then you would have left. If Papa hadn’t …”
He squeezes my hand. “Don’t.”
“Were you going to say good-bye?”
He doesn’t answer for too long. “I hadn’t gotten that far. I didn’t want to leave you.”
“And now you have me for better or worse.”
“I can protect you.” He says it under his breath.
I fist my hands. “But why should you?”
“I want to.” But there is something else in his eyes, quickly masked. “Look, let’s find a way around this.” He means the march, but I think also the subject. We walk back to the car, and he does find another way through. He is good at that.
I can’t stop seeing the faces of the marchers; some angry, some bitter, most weary and beaten. “Why is there no aid?” We have stopped in the next town for the night, but it’s as though the marchers have traveled with us.
“Tapped out.” Marco says. “There are too many.”
“But the children.”
He nods.
“I didn’t know it was so bad.”
“You were pretty well situated.”
“No thanks to the government and the awful Halstead Act. But it did prepare us. Papa and Nonno cursed its stupidity, agreeing on that much, but not what to do about it. Nonno was certain it would be repealed once the voices of reason were heard, and refused any talk of selling out. Instead, we tightened our belts and found ways to get by long before the crash.” I picture my beloved home, blessing Nonno for refusing to sell, though what has it gained us now?
“Nonna Carina and I built up our garden until we had more than we could use. Livestock for meat and milk for cheeses. And we had Papa’s income, which allowed us to keep the land.” I’m surprised to say it without choking up, but seeing the marchers has stiffened my spine.
“You were lucky.”
I don’t feel lucky. As banks tumbled like dominos, Arthur Jackson’s prospered—and Papa with him. It had to be by underhanded means. Bitterness fills my mouth, and I wish Papa had never set foot in that bank—even if it paid the taxes.
“Antonia.” Marco takes my hands. The light in our small room is dim and unsteady. His face is craggy with shadows. “I don’t regret our wedding. I hadn’t planned on a wife. My business takes me away too much, and—”
“You’ll have to sell me to the circus?”
He stares a moment, then throws back his head and laughs. Then he grabs me into his arms, more exuberant than I’ve ever seen him. “Can ya walk a tightrope?”
“I’ve never tried.”
“Then I’ll have to keep you.” Looking into my face, he sobers. “What I’d really like is to kiss you.”
My heart stills. “I suppose you can do pretty much what you like.”
“I don’t want to make it worse for you. I told you it was in name only.”
I am suddenly aware of his scent, faint pomade, the fish we had for dinner, the soap he washed his hands with. My Arpe`ge perfume is gone, and I taste of fish, as well, but I have already tipped up my face, and as my eyes close, our mouths blend.
When the kiss brings my tears, Marco holds me like a solicitous uncle, smoothing my hair and patting my back. Desire slides behind another face, and I wonder at this man who plays so many roles. I want to be what he wants, but my heart can’t open and guard itself at once.
“I’m sorry.” I sniff.
He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No. I’m … If I could just …”
Forget
.
“Maybe this wasn’t the way.” He lets go and paces the room.
He can’t be unsure. It scares me how much I’ve come to depend on his knowing, his taking charge. I catch his arm as he passes. “Marco.” My voice trembles. “If it’s not in name only, what happens?” I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I meant what would our lives look like. I need the path before me.
But his face changes, and I think I am seeing the real Marco, the man inside. He wants to make me his wife. “I forget how sheltered you’ve been.”
“Not so much.”
He smiles. “So much compared to some dames.”
I raise my chin. “I wasn’t asking for instructions, only …
if
our license was for real, would you want that?” I move close again.
“Cara, don’t.” His voice is thick in a way I recognize.
I know my power. My fingertips touch his chest, and he clasps them roughly.
“Antonia.” His roles are falling away. “There’s time to undo that ceremony. Enough rules were broken to invalidate …”
I reach behind his neck, bring his face down.
His breath rasps. “Cara mia …”
I have made my choice, and he makes his. His mouth is firm, commanding. He will be my match. I feel safe and scared at once. But when he has made me his wife, he murmurs,
“La mia vita ed il mio amore.” My life and my love
.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes.”
And so she was ready when Lance came for her. Bolstered by the memory of who Marco was, who she was, Antonia rode the wheelchair like a chariot. She might not be able to walk or speak right, but she was not going into the wretched bank like a broken old woman. If Lance wasn’t allowed to make her wishes known, she would make them known herself.
But as they neared the doors her chest quaked.
Oh, Marco
. The EKG had shown a strong heart, but it felt like breaking now.
Lance swung her around backward and pushed the door open with his backside, then spun her forward into the bank’s lobby. Roman had handled all her bills for so long she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been inside. She felt queasy.
Marco, Marco, Marco
.
The slender man Lance greeted came forward and shook his hand. He looked as though he would shake hers, too, then gave her a little wave instead. She pinned him with a look that made him straighten his tie and square his shoulders. “So …” He indicated the office behind him. “Why don’t we step in here.”
Lance had explained her request by phone, but this man had to see for himself. This man expected an old woman to leave her sickbed to get something her own husband had left her in his own box. This
banker
could learn some respect.
Lance said, “Since the stroke, my grandmother finds it easier to speak Italian.”
“No problem.” The man swept his hand to the name plate on his desk.
Emmanuel S. Giordano
. “My grandmother does too.”
Lance made a strange face. “Oh.”
Why didn’t he tell the man what they wanted and get done with it? She grunted.
Lance glanced down, but she didn’t want any of his placating smiles. “Bah …”
He waved her down with a gentle hand motion. “Hold on, Nonna.”
The banker sent an insipid smile. “I know this is a difficult time.”
You know nothing, fool
. Then she cringed. What was this spiteful spirit? Fear. It was fear.
Lance took out the key. “As I told you on the phone, she wants to open this safe deposit box.”
“Yes, I’ve checked that hers is a valid signature. The original holder included her name with his and stipulated her access to the contents in his will. However, I have no record of her accessing the box upon his death or since.”
“Well, she’d like to now.” Lance held out her identification with the key.
“I’ll need to make sure that is her intent, Mr. Michelli.” Emmanuel Giordano turned to her. “Mrs. Michelli, how are you today?”
She said nothing. What did he think, she could discuss the weather?
Lance cleared his throat. “You’d better stick with yes or no questions.”
The man nodded and spoke louder as though her hearing had suddenly worsened. “Mrs. Michelli, do you wish to access your safe deposit box?”
She answered.
The man raised his brows, rocked back on his heel, and turned slightly. He spoke through the side of his mouth. “Did she just say what I think she said?”
What? What did I say?
Lance answered, “It means yes. The stroke has jumbled her words a little, but she knows what she means.” At the man’s skeptical look, Lance said, “Ask her something obvious.”
Mr. Giordano said, “Is this the Fourth Federal Savings Bank?”
She had no idea what bank Lance had driven her to, but she answered.
Lance rubbed his mouth.
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell anything by that. She’s saying the same thing, but …”
“Ask her something false.”
Antonia scowled. What was this? She had told him what she wanted.
“Is … this pen green?” He held up a shiny black and gold pen.
What did he think, she was stupid? “No.”
Again the man’s eyes widened. He turned to Lance.
“That one means no. It’s like a code. She knows what she’s saying; it’s just different words.”
What was he talking about, different words?
Mr. Giordano pocketed the pen and continued to question her. Was Frank Sinatra the president? Were there seven days in a week? On and on. She gave her answers more vehemently each time.
Let me into the box, idiot!
Lance put a hand on her shoulder. “I think that’s enough.”
Mr. Giordano looked apologetic but firm. “I’m legally required to protect the integrity of that box and its contents. I need to question her without you, to make sure there’s no coercion.”
Lance bent. “Is that okay, Nonna? I’ll step out and you answer a few more questions?”
She didn’t want him to leave. He was her strength, her joy. More so even than her son, her Roman. Lance was her heart. So like Marco.
Marco!
“Just for a minute.” He kissed her cheek. “A few more questions.” He stepped away and went out.
Nonna returned her gaze to the banker. What did the S in his name stand for? Samuele? Salvatore? Sebastiani?
“Mrs. Michelli, are you being forced to open your box against your will?”
What did he think, her grandson was trash? “No. No.”
The banker moistened his lips. “Do you want to access the contents of the box?”
“Yes, I told you, yes!”
The man’s face twisted into a grimace.
She slapped her good hand on the armrest. “Yes. Yes!”
He drew himself up, formed a plastic sort of smile, and motioned Lance back into the office. “Although the vocabulary is … uncertain, I believe the intent is clear.”
Oh,
grazie.
A mule could have understood
.
He talked around her, but she didn’t care. She needed to get out of the bank. She closed her eyes and pictured Arthur Jackson, smug and suave, Papa like a shadow behind him. She hated banks, hated bankers. Even the smell of money conjured awful thoughts. Why had she come?
They entered a metal room with walls made out of drawers. The banker used one key and Lance gave him the other. What was in the box the banker took from its slot and carried to the small closet where he left her and Lance alone?
Lance put the box on the table and looked at her. “Are you sure?”
She closed her eyes.
Per piacere, Dio
. She opened them. “Yes.” She knew the sounds coming out were not right. She didn’t care. Lance knew her heart.
But he didn’t open the box. He knelt beside her and clasped her hand. “Don’t do this for me, Nonna.”
What was he talking about? “O … pen.” There. That had come out right.
He stood up, lifted the metal lid, and took out the only thing there: a bound set of pages. He looked at it a long moment, then set it in her lap. Her throat squeezed. The front page said only
La mia vita ed il mio amore
.
To understand the end, I must start at the beginning, the day it all began. It was warm and beautiful in Sonoma, with a clarity of sky I had seldom seen. The earth smelled rich and reminded me of the farms in the Bronx, north of Manhattan, though yours bore vines nestled in pale rolling hills with mounds of scrubby oak.
Birds sang as I approached the house that looked more Italian than its neighbors. It was old, but well tended at a time when paint was a luxury, and tin and cardboard roofed with burlap could be called a home, when people considered themselves lucky for the tenement room that sheltered their whole family, when hot water and a latrine meant a step up in the world.