Читать книгу Malafemmena - Louisa Ermelino - Страница 7

WHERE IT BELONGS

When the baby was born, the mother asked the midwife to take the afterbirth outside.

“I can’t,” Alfonsina whispered. “You got a girl. Don’t you want her to stay home?”

The mother didn’t. Armando was somewhere in the streets, already drunk, angry that he’d made a buttonhole.

“Take it outside,” the mother said. “This is America.”

“I can’t,” Alfonsina said. “Men go out of the house. No one wants a man who stays home, a ricchione, under his mother’s skirts. You know that. A woman belongs in the house,” she told the mother. “Let me put it down the toilet.”

“Take it,” the mother said again, “and dig a hole.”

Alfonsina looked out the window at the lines of laundry.

“Don’t ask me to do this,” she said. “I’m too old now. I can’t dig a hole so deep the dogs don’t find it.”

The mother leaned forward. “Take the money from the jar in the kitchen and get someone to help you. Pay them to dig a place and don’t say anything.”

“But if someone sees?” Alfonsina said. “Everybody knows you got a girl. And Armando? What about Armando?”

Alfonsina pulled a handkerchief from under the sleeve of her dress and twisted it in her fist. The baby cried and the mother turned away.

“Take her,” Alfonsina said. “Take your baby and forget this. You got a girl. Girls are always with you. You’ll get more babies. You’ll get sons.”

The mother would not look. She would not take the baby. She would not be persuaded.

“Trouble,” Alfonsina said. “You make trouble with this thing, I can tell you.”

She went to the kitchen to find the jar. It was behind the tins of flour on the shelf covered in yellow oilcloth.

Alfonsina put the afterbirth in a rag and wrapped it in newspaper. She tied the package with a string. The things people want in America, she thought.

Downstairs in the yard, Alfonsina remembered the baby had no name, and she walked back up the stairs. The mother was sitting at the kitchen table. The sweater over her shoulder had no buttons. She was drinking wine.

“The baby has no name,” Alfonsina said.

“Take some wine,” the mother said, going to the shelf to get a glass.

“And the baby’s name?” Alfonsina said.

“When I go to the priest . . .”

“No,” said Alfonsina. “I need it for the legal paper. This is America.”

The mother poured the wine. “I don’t know.”

Alfonsina shook her head. “I come another time, but you don’t wait too long. I need it for the paper.”

She finished the wine and got up to go. “Don’t forget,” she said. “You tell Armando no if he tries to bother you. You just had a baby. You tell him Alfonsina says he can’t bother you.”

“He won’t listen,” the mother said.

“Ah,” said Alfonsina. “If it was Donna Vecchio said it, he would listen. They all listen to Donna Vecchio. She makes it fall off with her magic when they don’t listen. You should have called Donna Vecchio for your baby.”

Alfonsina opened the door. She was already in the hall when the mother touched her arm. The mother pointed to the package wrapped in newspaper.

“You swear to me, Alfonsina,” she said.

“Yes, yes, I swear. Rest now or the milk won’t come. And then where will you be? You and your mixed-up baby?”

When Alfonsina had gone, the mother picked up the baby. The baby was bound in strips of bedsheet, beginning under the arms and pulled tightly to the toes, where Alfonsina had tied a knot.

“You have to do this,” she had told the mother, “to make the legs grow straight.”

But now the mother unwrapped the baby and let her legs kick free. She sat in the chair by the window that looked out into the yard and the lines of laundry. She undid her dress. She wasn’t worried about the milk. With the other baby, the one that couldn’t swallow, there had been so much milk that when the baby died, no one could make the milk go away, until Donna Vecchio had come with her powers of fattura and a paste of olive oil and parsley. Donna Vecchio would be angry that she wasn’t called for this baby.

The mother tried not to be afraid. This was America. She tried not to be afraid of Donna Vecchio. She tried not to be afraid of Armando.

Armando, who had come to her brother’s house in Brooklyn one day to ask for her.

“Yes,” her brother’s wife had said.

“Who is he?” her brother had asked his wife that night when she told him.

“He’s Genovese,” his wife had said.

“But what does he do?” her brother had asked.

“He’s Genovese, I told you,” the wife had said. “What are you worried about? The Genovese always make a dollar. The undertaker, the butcher, all Genovese.”

“She’s a child,” her brother said.

“She’s old enough.”

Armando had come and taken her from her brother’s house with the front yard in Brooklyn and brought her here to the building across from the horse stables. She had carried her own things.

Once she had gone to her brother, and her brother had said that he would kill Armando with a knife.

But this was America.

Could she see her brother in jail because of Armando? She had come back alone to the building across from the horse stables.

The mother sat in the chair by the window with her baby. She heard the men coming home from work and the children called in from the street. She heard them on the stairs and smelled the cooking from their mothers’ open doors.

Outside the window the laundry had disappeared. Empty clotheslines crisscrossed the yard. The mother looked out the window to where her girl would go, not to hang laundry, she was determined, and she waited for Armando.

Armando, who would come home and shout that there was no coal, that there was no food. He would try to bother her or he would be too drunk. He would not remember about the baby. She would not tell him.

If the shouting got too loud, if Armando banged too hard and too long on the door and the women got frightened, they would call the police. The police would come to the building across from the horse stables. They had come before, because this was America.

The men would not interfere. Behind the door was Armando’s house. It would be the women who would call the police, and the police would come and make her open the door. They would make her let Armando into his house.

The men would nod. It was Armando’s house. The women would stand in the hall with their heads covered. Some things do not change.

In the morning the baby cried. The mother made a fire in the stove. She ate bread and drank coffee and sat in the chair by the window with her baby.

A policeman came. He asked the mother to come with him. She wrapped the baby, covered her shoulders, and followed him to where they showed her Armando, his face battered and bloodless.

“An accident,” the policeman said, “a fight. We don’t know yet. Do you know anything?” he asked.

“I don’t know anything,” she told him.

“We’ll find out,” he said.

She knew they wouldn’t.

When she came home, the women were waiting for her. They were waiting on the stoops and they were waiting by their open doors.

“Armando is dead,” she told them.

Alfonsina came. She called out to the Virgin and Santa Rosalina. “I heard,” she said. “I just heard about Armando.” She took a package wrapped in newspaper from under her skirts. “I brought it back,” she said. “We can do it now. We can flush it down the toilet now. You don’t need no more trouble.”

“Give it to me,” the mother said.

Alfonsina crossed herself. She swore she would say nothing, and she left the mother and the baby and the package wrapped in newspaper that she had carried under her skirts.

Armando came into the house that night in the undertaker’s box. He lay on the white satin inside the box in the black suit he was married in. The people came and gave the mother money folded inside envelopes. The women whispered and shook their heads. She was young to have no husband. Why didn’t she cry?

The men standing in the corners talked of other things. Some of them watched her too closely. She was young, they thought. She would get lonely. Maybe, when some time had passed . . .

The paid mourners in black shawls moaned over Armando’s body. They moved back and forth over him, shaking water blessed by the priest from their fingers. The water made damp spots on Armando’s black wedding suit.

Donna Vecchio came. When Donna Vecchio came, everything stopped. Her hair was done in marcelled waves. Her hairdresser lived in her house. Donna Vecchio had large breasts and short, bent legs. The envelope she gave the mother smelled of lavender.

“I’m sorry for your trouble,” Donna Vecchio said. “And how is the baby?”

“Do you want to see her?” the mother said.

“The baby isn’t mine,” Donna Vecchio said. “You didn’t call me for this baby. She isn’t one of mine.”

“But she is,” the mother said. “I am giving her your name, Carolina. I am asking you to baptize her, to be her gummara.”

Donna Vecchio smiled and held out her hand for a kiss.

The rows of borrowed chairs were empty. The mother sat alone. She would sit all night to watch for Armando’s spirit. When the spirit of the dead leaves, it looks for a sleeping body to enter. It enters through the mouth.

The mother wouldn’t sleep, but would sit all night with Armando, with the sound of the ice melting into the pan underneath his coffin. She would not let the baby sleep.

Underneath Armando’s body was a block of ice, and underneath Armando’s head, underneath the white satin pillow, was the package wrapped in newspaper.

And tomorrow they would bury Armando. They would put him in the ground with the afterbirth of the baby, in a hole so deep the dogs don’t find it.