Liberation Day

April 25, 1945

Dusk was falling fast, and hope was falling with it.

Maria looked out the window at the field of sugar beets in their wet dirt and trudged greens. Her mother was rattling pans in the kitchen as she nervously cooked, wracking her brains for some new way to fix dried peas. She’d soaked them with tinned meat as long as that was around, she tossed them into pasta, she had tried to make pot roasts of them with whatever she could scrounge up. She had fried them, boiled them, scalded them, grated them, puréed them, tried to roll them out and make something that resembled noodles. Nevertheless, they were still just dried peas, and no matter how much the children complained, Holy Mother of God, at least it was food, which not everybody, everywhere, had.

Maria walked to the door to put on the dark overcoat her Mother had made for her from an old plaid blanket discovered in the attic. Maria hated it. She hated the peas. She hated her Mother. She hated her brother. Hers was not the happy life of a-nine-year old girl.

“Maria,” shouted her mother. “Don’t go out. Listen to me.”

“I’m going to look for Babbo!”

Elvira ran to the door and grabbed Maria’s arm with resolute violence. When Maria yanked away from her, it wrenched Elvira’s shoulder. Elvira started to scream at Maria. She wasn’t angry, she wasn’t irritated, she wasn’t even frustrated. She was nothing more than scared out of her wits.

“Oh no, you aren’t. I swear I’ll tie you to a chair if you take one more step towards that door.”

Maria took the step and sure enough, Elvira shouted for Primo.

“Tie her up. Now. I have to cook.”

At 13 years of age, Primo pretended he was a big game hunter on the African veldt, and his sister, wild prey.

“Okay my screaming macaco, sit in the chair.”

But Maria was too quick and got the door open. Primo snatched her by the arm and this time Maria bit the hand that held her. He slapped her and she started to scream.

“Primo, if she doesn’t stop right now,” intoned Elvira from the kitchen, “gag her. We can’t have that kind of chaos in the house.”

Maria stopped. She went to the chair, placed it in front of the window and crossed her arms. Primo dangled his handkerchief in front of her, and melodramatically sneezed in it twice. He would use it to gag her, she knew, so she kept just as still as she could. She kept her eyes on the field beyond the window, on the last rays light as they were fading far off across the fields into this early April evening. She had been waiting for her father to come back for two days now, two endless days with her cruel brother and her chronically irate mother. In the morning, Elvira cooked peas. In the afternoon, she mended socks. At night while Maria and her brother pretended to sleep, Elvira pounded her hand on the wall above her nightstand.

Her mother wouldn’t let either of her children leave the house. Elvira insisted that if Primo wanted to go outside, he had to wear his short pants, sit on the stoop, and knit socks. Primo hated Elvira, too. He hated being old enough to wear long pants and having to wear these baggy zouave knicker things cut down from his father’s old work trousers. He hated knitting socks too, but it was the only way he could sit in the sun when it deigned to come out. He hated sitting on the stoop while the girls passed by and ignored him completely. But most of all, he hated it when he came back in. Elvira would take a look at the sock he had knitted, find an imaginary flaw and with a flick of her hand unravel the whole thing, dancing across the room.

“You can do better than that. I wouldn’t let a chicken wear these socks.”

So he wound the yarn into a ball again on the stoop and at least, sat in the sun.

Now that his father was gone, it was Primo’s turn to be the man of the house, but Maria wouldn’t let him. Maria reminded Elvira that he was just a boy and Primo hated Maria for it. He half hoped his father wouldn’t return. At least Primo wouldn’t be subjected to his father’s rages, the slaps and beatings his father gave him. The family would do well enough without him. Primo hated the way Maria was clinging to the hope of seeing their father again. On the other hand, it was impossible to feel affection for people who so obviously hated you, and demonstrated their hate with their deeds.  His father, his mother, his sister: they knew nothing about how he felt or who he was. They weren’t even interested in Primo. Brutality was more than just a habit in his family; it was an ongoing legacy. Primo delighted in tying up his sister. After he bound her, he looked at her with satisfaction, and went back to his room to read.

When three soldiers walked past her window, Maria ducked her head. They were smoking and chatting gaily, their rifles slung over the shoulders as they walked into town for a drink at the café. Two days ago, those same soldiers had been so nice to her when she met them; these men who could only speak with infinitives, had turned evil before her eyes.

* * * * * * * *

April 23^rd, 1945

* * * * * * * *

 “You to be pretty girl. You to want bloom from almond tree?” Maria smiled and took their flowers. “You to ask father to come to see us?’

Maria had run in the house screaming “Babbo, Babbo’” and Elvira had slapped her hand over Maria’s mouth and squeezed Maria’s face hard enough to make tears come to her eyes, while Elvira started to sing a soft little tune. “Beautiful girl, fresh from the country, from the country.” While Elvira seemingly took a breath, she lowered her voice into a fierce whisper and told Maria “Tell the soldiers your father ’ has gone to Lugo to sell our cow at the livestock market - With eyes and hair as bright as glistening coal.” Elvira another breath and then hissed, “If they try to come in the house, make sure they step on you first, or you’ll catch it from me - A mouth much redder than a rose hip - Now go!”

She thwacked Maria once on her butt, sending her back to the front door as Elvira waltzed lightly into the kitchen singing: “You are my own, sweet passion” in a tender decrescendo.

Maria went back to the door, holding her flowers. The soldiers were waiting for her. “Papa’ has gone to sell the cow. At the market. Lugo.’

“Luge! Pretty girl to say Luge?”

“Yes, Lugo.”

The soldiers brazenly pushed the door above her head to enter her house and Maria fell backwards in their path. One of their boots pinched the side of her thigh and she screamed. Elvira came running into the room with a green dishtowel.

“Frau, where to be your man? We to talk with him.”

“He has gone to the market to sell the cow. In town. In Lugo.”

“Luge! Ein andere seit Luge! Dieser lugenden Italienische leute!”

The soldiers advanced towards Elvira as she shouldered her way along the walls towards the window. She reached for the iron window grate with her hand and the green dishtowel but they slammed their rifles in her way. The green dishtowel fell to the floor and Elvira followed it, gasping.

“We to wait for man and to hear about Luge.’

The soldiers sat on the rough chairs and the mud caked on their boots fell onto the carpet. Elvira looked up, caught her wits and said: “Coffee, you to want coffee?”

“Nein, we to wait. Frau to wait with us. Pretty little child to wait outside.”

“Maria, you heard what they said,” Elvira sweetly murmured. “Don’t cry! Don’t complain, just stand up very slowly, come to me, help me up and take the green dish towel with you when you go outside.”

Maria stood up and walked to her Mother. As Maria helped Elvira stand up, Elvira tucked the green dishtowel under Maria’s arm and nudged her towards the door. As Maria passed the soldiers, one of them started to inhale and rifled though his pockets for a handkerchief. Just as Maria was walking past him, he let out a big sneeze right at her face, but being a man who liked children, he simultaneously grabbed the dish towel and honked into it rather than plaster Maria’s face with snot. Maria let go of the dishtowel and he wiped his face with it. Then he draped it over his thigh and he cleared his throat again.

“Danke schoen pretty child. You to go outside and to sing.”

Maria walked out the door and sat on the stoop. At the bend in the road, she could make out her father’s silhouette. She sang and waved, trying to shoo him away from the house. But it was no use. He walked right up to her and started to scold her.

“What are you doing outside at this time of the day? I’ve told you until I am blue in the face that . . .”

The door flew open behind Maria and the soldiers grabbed Lorenzo’s backside as he turned to flee. “Where to be gone, Herr?”

“To the livestock market. In Lugo.”

“Luge, luge, luge. Enough Luge! You to come with us. Jetszt.”

While one of the soldiers held him, the other tied Lorenzo’s hands behind his back. This was not a good sign. The last time Elvira had seen someone with their hands tied behind her back, the woman had been lying face down in an irrigation canal, along with twelve other cohorts, all released from the parish madhouse so the Germans could shoot them in the back, two at a time, off the little bridge that led into town. Everyone saw what happened when the population did not cooperate with the Germans.

Lorenzo turned to say something to Elvira, but the Germans blindfolded and gagged him. Elvira sank to the chair by the window; if she screamed, they might shoot her on the spot.  She stood up, walked to the front door, and picked up the big green snotrag that had fallen from the soldiers’ thigh when he dashed to open the door to Lorenzo. If only the soldier hadn’t sneezed, Maria would have made it outside with the dishtowel and Lorenzo would have disappeared until the Germans were all gone. Elvira leaned against the doorjamb and watched the Germans trundle her husband off in the bright midday sun. Then she collapsed onto the floor.

When she came to, Maria was glowering over her.

“Why didn’t you make them stop? Why did you let them take Babbo away? I hate you!”

Elvira looked up at her red-faced daughter and pulled herself up on her elbows. Elvira took a longer look and then hauled off and slapped Maria flat across her left cheek so hard that it knocked Maria off balance, and so loud that Primo giggled behind his bedroom door.

“I let them take him away? You did. All you had to do was take that dishtowel outside. That was all I asked, and you failed. If your father had seen that green rag, he would never had gotten close to the house. Besides, I’m not going to take any sass off of you. Now go to your room and stay there.”

That had been two days ago. No one had had any news about the Germans. No one knew where they were, nobody had a radio, and nobody could find anything in the papers. Elvira cooked peas. Primo knitted. Maria sat at the window and waited.

The sun was setting behind the house and Maria watched the shadows on the horizon become darker and darker, less distinguishable, less clear. The earth turned from a muddy brown to dark lilac and the mulberry trees deepened in hue until they were almost imperceptibly dark green against the last swath of dark yellow that was dropping beyond the horizon. Maria hadn’t been out to play in their limbs for weeks now, those ten lone mulberry trees that delineated the irrigation canal around the sugar beet field.

Ten trees, the third from the left had a small plank on the trunk so Maria could climb it. The fifth from the left held the perch of an old owl that once swooped down at Maria’s hair. The seventh from the left was Primo’s or so he said and the ninth from the left had been struck by lightning and only half its raft of branches was visible. The last tree. …

What last tree? There were two more trees. Maria counted the trees from left to right. How had an eleventh tree managed to sprout up there since January? Was it another locust tree they would have to dig up? That took forever; locust trees were hard to kill. Maria looked at the trees again as the little line of light was dying on the horizon. This time she could only make out nine dark shapes; what was happening, had someone cut down the last two trees down while she was watching? She focused on the last two trees of nine, now and she saw that Primo's tree was growing and as it grew, it was taking over tree number eight. It was incredible, to see a tree actually growing.

The sky was tinting cobalt blue at its edges and Maria saw the evening star wanly shine out of the sky, off to the east above Lugo. Then she looked back at the trees: only five now remained while the others had turned into one great dark mass against the sky, growing little by little until it . . .

Then Maria realized what it was: a bomb, they were bombing Lugo and it was the smoke rising from the city. She spat out her rag screamed “They’re bombing Lugo,” and as soon as she did, Primo bolted from his room and put the gag back in her mouth. Primo looked out the window. He had been reading and his eyes were not adjusted to the dark so he saw nothing. The trees had now completely disappeared and in their place a dark mass against the last little flicker of light from the sky grew larger and Maria now realized that it could only be one thing: a tank that was rolling across the fields, straight towards their house, straight towards her sitting in the window, bound and gagged. She would get squished like a lizard under a tractor’s wheels.

She squirmed and moaned, but there was no way she could move or communicate. Primo held tight to the chair so Maria couldn’t even knock it over. It was the end for all of them; it was the end of the peas, of the socks, of her dolls. It was the end of Elvira and Primo and Maria, it was the end of their home. There would be no more school, no more fighting, no more cappelletti at Christmas.

Maria looked out the window through her tears as the tank rolled toward the house. It had two guns sticking out of it, there was not much more she could make out against the darkness.  She knew the mulberry trees were less than a kilometer away, the tank would be at her window any second now. She twisted her head to look back at the kitchen to see Elvira pounding the peas with an angry meat tenderizer made of heavy greenish glass and then when Maria turned back to look at the window, the dark mass completely obscured the evening sky from her panorama. Only the light from the front room fell out through the window and soon it would illuminate the tank as it drew closer to the house. Maria now detected movement and saw something white moving in the darkness, coming towards the window. It was, it was…and it finally advanced into the pool of light falling from the house, outside her window. It was a man running at her, almost doubled over. His hair was sticking out at odd angles; the buttons had been ripped off his shirt. It was, it was…her father. His eyes grew large when he saw her strain against the ropes binding her. He ducked.

Maria went into convulsions. Didn’t he see the tank behind him, coming at the house? Now they would all die. No one would listen to her, no one would try to understand her, no one would let her save them. Maria closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable.

But nothing happened. A frog started to croak. Then another, then a third, then a fourth. Then the first frog started to croak again, Elvira jumped and dropped the glass meat pounder to the floor. It split as she dashed to the door and flung it open. Elvira started to croak “Loruz, Loruz, sei mort, sei mort, quan, quan, quan?” and the frogs responded “iri, iri, iri” to her call. She jumped left around the corner of the house and there stood her husband. She ran and threw herself at him.

“Lorenzo, Lorenzo, Lorenzo, Lorenzo, Lorenzo,” was all she could say as she wrapped herself around him and for the first time in three days, let go of everything she had inside her. Tears and mucous streamed down her cheeks and chin and he swept her off her feet and carried her in the house.

“Elvira, what has Maria done to get tied to the chair? I thought the Germans were holding you all hostage. I couldn’t even walk into my own house. What’s going on?”

Maria couldn’t even see through her tears. Her father gently untied her as Primo came into the room; Lorenzo asked Primo why Maria was tied up, again.

“Mother asked me to. Maria kept trying to run away, she said she was going to find you.”

“I understand. I understand. I understand.”

“Oh Babbo, Babbo, Babbo, Babbo,” Maria sobbed.

“Elvira, the bombing will start soon. The Canadians are coming tonight. Are we ready?”

Elvira returned from the kitchen with the green dishtowel, and a red one, and a white one.

“All we have to do is sew them together. But not until I see the whites of those Canadian eyes.”

When the Canadians showed up with the whites of their eyes to liberate Romagna, Elvira sewed the dishtowels together, Lorenzo lashed them to a long sturdy river cane, and Primo clambered onto the roof where he waved the makeshift banner as the tanks rolled past their home. Maria finally summoned the courage to ask her father how he had got away from the Germans.

“Oh Maria, I’ll tell you one day, one day when you’re old enough to understand everything. I promise. The important thing is that I’m here.”

Maria eventually came to understand almost everything: the mulberry trees which seemed to grow and merge; it was her father running, huddled over, across the field in front of the trees to the house. The relentless diet of peas was all the food they had, but it was food, her mother’s bad temper needed no further thought. Primo eventually understood why Elvira had forced him to act like a child wearing short pants and knitting socks on the stoop: so the Germans wouldn’t press him into service; why his mother unraveled the socks: so she wouldn’t have to buy more yarn. Maria and Primo both eventually learned why the Germans became enraged when Elvira told them their father Lorenzo was in Lugo; the name “Lugo” sounded just like the word for “lies” in German. However, Maria and Primo never grew old enough to understand everything.

Lorenzo never kept his promise to tell them of his liberation from the Germans. Maria’s memories of her brother’s cruelty, her mother’s violence to her, and the coat made from an old blanket would at least let her sleep soundly between linen sheets. The story of her father’s escape would have been an indelible nightmare for the rest of Maria’s days.

The truth does not always set you free.

April 21, 2019

Easter Sunday

“Christmas with your mothers,

Easter with your druthers!”

Mirella turned and gave her brother Giampaolo a sharp look.

“Would you rather be off someplace else? It’s not like you’re doing very much.”

”What do you mean? I made it down last night in time to get to the hospital for visiting hours.”

“And the only thing you could think about was getting your shirts to Papà’s maid in time for her to wash and iron them for this afternoon when you go back to Ferrara. Don’t you know, I spent the whole day there and you couldn’t even be bothered to get a bunch of flowers?”

“Oh, why don’t you just shut up? I’ve really had enough of you for today.”

“Enough! You don’t know what enough is. All you know is yourself.”

They turned the corner and saw their mother in her room at the very end of corridor, propped up in a wheel chair, a distant pained look on her face. They turned their tiff to smiles as they walked toward her.

“Happy Easter, Mamma!”

“Not much of a happy one here. That’s for sure.”

“Didn’t you sleep well?”

“Of course not, with all these old ladies snoring and stumbling around in their ratty bathrobes. Ugh!”

Giampaolo and Mirella looked at their mother and winced. Until a few weeks ago, she had still been wearing the blonde wig that the doctors suggested she have made up with her own hair before she underwent chemotherapy. Now her hair had grown out too much for the wig to be comfortable and for the first time in their lives, they saw the real color of her hair: the gunmetal gray of country women who never colored their hair. Even the maid used something like shoe polish on her wispy hair to make her look like she was in her forties from across the square. Mamma’s end was near.

Mirella walked over to her mother and took her hand. Her mother retracted it. When Giampaolo did the same, she held on and pulled him towards her. Mirella turned and started tidying up the things on her mother’s nightstand.

“You be careful when you drive back to Ferrara this afternoon Giampaolo; the rain isn’t going to let up until tomorrow. It didn’t rain on the palms, so now it’s raining on the eggs.”

“Mamma, it’s only fifty miles; I’ll be fine. I do wish I could get a new car. But that’ll have to wait.”

“Until I finally die and you get my pension.”

“Mamma, what are you talking about? I can’t get your pension.”

“Oh yes but you will. I’m still married to your father and I’ll see to it that he doesn’t line his pocket with that little sum.”

“Mamma,” Mirella turned and held up a woolen sock. “Do you know where the other one is?”

“Goddam it, will you stop prattling about like some housewife and listen to what I’m telling your brother?” Mamma’s mood was unlikely to improve at this point unless someone else arrived. Fortunately, Mamma’s companion Leone appeared around the corner, holding a single potted Easter lily.

“My Love! Happy Easter!”

Leone walked over and embraced Mamma in front of the children. Leone had been a real saint through all her bouts with cancer, accompanying Mamma to Texas and Turin and getting medication sent in from England and India. Mamma had shrewdly roped in a biochemist when she finally left Papà. She got cancer a year later. Mirella and Giampaolo both liked Leone, especially the luxurious lifestyle he led: a spacious penthouse with its grandiose dining room and terrace, his latest model car, and the big fat white gold Rolex he wore under the tailored cuff of his silk shirt. The children had just about forgotten their own real father existed since Mamma’s tumor had been pronounced inoperable.

Mamma looked up and smiled broadly for the first time that day. Leone usually spent the whole day with her, and he really loved her, but he was not quite as devoted to her as her daughter was. Mirella was the one who spoke with the doctors and nurses, who ran errands and got her mother the magazines and articles of clothing she wanted. Mirella was the one who spent the night by her mother’s bedside and emptied her bedpan. Mirella was the one who had to disappear when anyone came to see Mamma.

Mirella had always disappointed Mamma. Mirella dressed with no style, used cheap make-up, and ate tuna fish out of a can when she was hungry. Mirella was the most intelligent member of their family hands down, and humble to boot, but she wasn’t pretty or stylish. Mirella was a wan, thin girl with limp mousy dishwater blonde hair, nondescript glasses, and a receding chin. She was flat chested, too. Mamma, buxom and boisterous could never stand the sight of her daughter, it was clear to everyone that Mamma considered Mirella her most enormous mistake.

Mirella knew all of this perfectly well. It hurt her, but what she felt for her mother was stronger than all the insult and injury that her mother could fling at her. For the first time in her life, Mirella was starting to feel close to her mother as she slowly died in the hospital room. Mirella could finally caress her mother’s hand while she slept and brush her hair and take care of her, the way she imagined her mother had taken care of her as a little girl. There was no stopping things now. Mirella would soak up as much as possible from her mother emotionally at this point. Giampaolo would get as much financially for later.

“Children, come come, it’s time for you to go. You know what they say: ‘Christmas with your mothers, Easter with your druthers.’ Now run along and find a girlfriend Giampaolo. You know I want grandchildren.”

Giampaolo smiled and gave his mother a big kiss. Mirella turned and touched her mother’s shoulder. They both winced.

“I’ll be back after dinner, unless you need something.”

Leone stood up and smiled right at Mirella.

“Mirella, my daughter’s having a birthday party tonight; do you think you could come back to the hospital about six? I need to be there and supervise, much to her chagrin. She needs a little guidance, you know that.”

“Oh Leone. That’ll be fine. I’ll try to eat before I come.”

Mirella and Giampaolo walked out of the room. Giampaolo could hardly wait to ask Mirella about the pension.

“What’s this business about her pension, Mirella? What has she told you?”

          “Have you tried calling Papà? In fact, when was the last time you spoke to him?”

          “Last week. He was late with my allowance, as usual. But he didn’t say anything about Mamma’s pension check. Come to think of it, I suppose Mamma’s pension check will go to Papà since they never legally separated and they're still legally married. He couldn’t possibly need that money, I mean, he gets enough from his law practice. There’s no reason why the two of us shouldn’t get it. How much do you think it is?

        “Giampaolo, can’t we talk about something else?”

“Has Papà told you how much it is?”

“How insensitive can you be?” Mirella’s eyes began to tear up. She pulled out a wrinkled tissue and blew her nose.

         “Oh, don’t start that again. I’m leaving. I guess I need to drop by and see Papà. I might as well spend the night there and let him cook dinner for me; he’s always got a couple of t-bone steaks in the fridge. God knows he has enough room now that Mamma and you and I have left the house. I guess he’ll get the house, too, won’t he, since they won’t bother with a divorce? And he won’t have to pay any taxes on it either! There is some method to the way Mamma treated Papà after all.”

Outside in the light grey rain, Mirella unlocked her car and dumped Mamma’s laundry in the back seat. The rain has been sullenly insistent all day. As she drove to her apartment in the drizzle, she saw little children standing outside under the awnings on the balconies of their homes after they had finished eating their enormous Easter lunches, munching on great shards of chocolate. As Mirella was unlocking the door to her apartment, her widowed Aunt Licia called.

“Oh Auntie, she’s not getting any better.”

“I know poor thing, do you want me to go in tonight?”

“No, you have your grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren? Don’t you remember? ‘Christmas with your mothers, Easter with your druthers.’ They’ve taken off for the hills and parties in town. I won’t see them again until Wednesday. Mirella, have you eaten?”

“Oh Auntie, I had some tuna fish.”

“Now Mirella, that’s not enough. Come over; I’ll give you a nice big plate of cappelletti with ragù. I know you prefer that to broth!”

This tempted Mirella. She was hungry and all alone. She couldn’t bear to see her father these days, for it led her to relive her miserable childhood and the constant venomous fights between her mother and her father. There was the time her mother kicked six holes in the door to the bathroom while her father was locked inside. Mamma had stuck ski pass stickers over the holes. It looked cheery but Mirella remembered the scream and shouts every time she had to wash her hands.

“I’ll be right over.”

When Mirella arrived, Aunt Licia had spread a clean tablecloth in the kitchen for both of them and put out a bottle of wine. They both drank one glass as her aunt cooked the cappelletti and tossed them in the tomato sauce that Mirella preferred to broth. When Mirella finished eating, she put her head on the table.

Aunt Licia didn’t wake her until Mamma called for her at twenty minutes past six.

“Where the hell do you think you are? I’ve been calling you on your cell phone, then on your landline at home for 20 minutes, standing here in my bathrobe in the hall at this goddamned payphone because you let my fucking battery die and put the goddamned cord who knows where, and then I figured you would be at Licia’s. You promised Leone you would be here at six, and he’s left me all alone. You selfish little asshole! I should bite you until you bleed!”

Aunt Licia heard all of this because Mamma was screaming at the top of her lungs. Licia’s neighbors had probably heard it, it was so loud. Aunt Licia grabbed the phone and said: “Maria Grazia, Maria Grazia calm down. Mirella fell asleep on the table after lunch and she’s been in the same position for the last three hours. I couldn’t bear to wake her so I put her cell phone under the pillow on my bed. Now you calm down, and one of us will be there as soon as possible. You are entirely capable of eating by yourself.”

“Oh yes, maybe for another week! Don’t you understand: I AM DYING! DYING! DYING! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

Aunt Licia put the phone down on the phone stand and placed a cushion over it. Mirella’s head was on the table and her hair was spread across the tablecloth like an octopus; she was weeping quietly. When she raised her head and looked up at Aunt Licia, Licia saw where Mirella’s makeup had run onto the tablecloth. Aunt Licia pulled Mirella into her cashmere bosom and comforted her.

“It’s all right. She’s upset; we just have to accept it. Now, go into the bathroom and freshen up. I’ll come down to the hospital with you, and spend the night with you tonight.”

While Mirella went to the bathroom, Aunt Licia listened to the phone and heard a dial tone. So she put the receiver back on the hook, and took it off again. She knew Maria Grazia would keep calling back, and it was useless to listen to her laments and wails. Maria Grazia’s anger had never helped anyone.

When they got to the hospital, they found Maria Grazia propped up in bed half asleep. The nurse had given her a mild sedative after dinner and Maria Grazia was drifting off. Mirella started to busy herself with the nightstand while Licia took her coat off and sat down, elegantly crossing her taupe legs. She motioned to Mirella to sit down. Aunt Licia whispered:

“Why don’t you go home, Mirella? I’ll stay the night if you come pick me up since I didn’t come by bike. It’ll be all right. All your Mamma really needs is to see someone here if she wakes up.”

“But Auntie, I don’t know how much longer she has to live. I don’t want to miss a minute. She might need me.”

“All right, we can stay here together, that’s fine with me. Go ahead and take your coat off.”

The son of the woman in the next bed came up to Mirella. “Can I talk to you for just a minute? There’s something I’d like to tell you.”

Mirella feared the worst and motioned to him to come out into the corridor where a nurse was smoking on an open balcony.

“I just wanted you to know that your mother . . .”

Mirella’s eyes burned with rage and she blurted out “I don’t have time for your bullshit about my Mother and her ways. Let me get back . . .”

The young man grabbed Mirella by the elbow: “NO, listen. Your mother has been so kind to my grandmother. She feeds her if I come in late, she hands over all her old magazines, and she always takes a few of her own flowers and arranges them in a little vase for her. I can’t tell you . . .”

Mirella and the young man looked at one another in the eyes and silent tears streamed down their faces. When Mirella recovered, she turned to the young man.

“I’m so sorry I was short with you. This is just not a good time at all.”

“The hospital usually isn’t. But some people make it just a little bit better than it is. Your mother really is one of them, and you definitely are as well. I can see where you get it from.”

No one had ever compared Mirella to her mother. Maria Grazia was chic and glamorous and outspoken, she could talk a brick wall into dancing the mazurka with her; Maria Grazia had men and boys falling all over her. Mirella didn’t even look like her, they didn’t have the same coloring, and they couldn’t even wear the same shoes. Though Maria Grazia could put on quite a show of lavish consideration and kindness if she knew her audience would appreciate it, no one had ever been as cruel to Mirella as Maria Grazia had been. Mirella was bowled over by the young man’s compliment.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week. Thank you so much for taking the time to speak to me. I do appreciate it; it’s nice when people are kind.”

“Well, I have to go. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

Mirella walked back into the room. Aunt Licia was holding the Sunday supplement magazine straight in front of her, reading about the latest scandals of coalitions among opposing parties in the Italian parliament. Maria Grazia was snoring, her mouth slightly parted so you could see her teeth. She had had them all capped several years ago but the chemotherapy had worn off the enamel so now you could see underlying glints of dentist’s gold. Maria Grazia’s bright blonde tresses which she had bleached and streaked and frosted for the past twenty years hair were growing back slowly into a vengeful lusterless gray stubble. Mirella tucked the sheets in around her mother.

Aunt Licia looked over at Maria Grazia and sighed. Her favorite niece, Maria Grazia had been a perfect little gumdrop as a child, sweetly playing with her dolls, cutting pictures out of magazines to adorn her bedroom. Then came adolescence and something had clicked in Maria Grazia, something that spurred her to ambitious social climbing. She could still turn on her spigot of charm when she wanted to, but when she didn’t feel like it, Ooooh, watch out: she was absolute Hell to be around, a licensed bitch. Maria Grazia had never understood Mirella, or even worse, what Maria Grazia had understood about Mirella, Maria Grazia rejected. 

For that matter, Aunt Licia had never completely understood her great-niece Mirella either, but Aunt Licia knew that if someone needed something and Mirella could do it, she would. Mirella was oddly like her mother; they both had a gentle sweet nature and that same seething rage that would erupt into tears and ultimata, but somehow Mirella at least realized when she had been nasty and selfish and mended her ways with humility. Contrariwise, Maria Grazia never backed down and never said she was sorry (unless of course, she wasn’t and it sounded like the right thing to say so that Maria Grazia could reap some advantage).

Aunt Licia had been in the kitchen when Maria Grazia had been born almost fifty years ago, and she had been in the birthing room when Mirella and Giampaolo were born. All that blood and poop and amniotic fluid and then finally, Giampaolo came out. A male! A little boy! Nothing could have made them happier. And Maria Grazia had continued to scream and shout, and as much as they tried to calm her down, there was nothing to do.

“There’s another baby coming. I can feel it.”

“Maria Grazia, you’re the same old hysterical hoyden! Now calm down while they sew you back up.”

“NO! NO NO NO NO NO! Unnmmhnh.”

Maria Grazia grunted and pushed, and sure enough, another baby was crowning! Licia had never seen a twin birth, and when she discovered it was a little girl, she laughed and laughed and laughed.

“You always were the lazy one! Now you have an instant family. No more child bearing for you!”

Mirella listened patiently while Aunt Licia told her the story again. Mirella had heard it no less than forty-six times, but since it was about her, she always enjoyed it.*

“Aunt Licia, would you like a cup of tea? I’m off to get another pitcher of water.”

“Oh, yes. That would be nice. Thanks.”

As soon as Mirella left the room, Maria Grazia opened her eyes and looked straight at Licia. Licia looked back and walked over to the bed.

“You’ve been awake the whole time, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have. Who can sleep in a dump like this? But the last thing I want to do is prattle on.”

“Then why are you talking to me? Or is it you don’t want to speak to your daughter.”

“Daughter, oh, if only I’d had two sons! That would have been a real triumph for me.”

Licia leaned over, raised her arm, and smacked Maria Grazia flat across the mouth. Hard. Not hard enough to be heard in the next bed and not hard enough to damage Maria Grazia, but hard enough for Maria Grazia to realize that Licia was hurting her because she had been bad. Maria Grazia violently stared at her aunt.

“How dare you! Here I am DYING and you strike me! I’m going to call the nurse. NUR . . .”

With serene poise and crystalline firmness, Aunt Licia clamped her hand over Maria Grazia’s mouth. “You calm down. Right now. And you listen to me. Mirella is the flesh of your flesh. You never have liked her very much, even the dogs can tell that in the house, but don’t you ever ever let me hear you say you wished you hadn’t had her.”

Maria Grazia glowered more fiercely.

“And I’ll tell you something else Maria Grazia, you’re pretty goddamned lucky you have Mirella. Nobody loves Giampaolo more than you and I do, but he can’t even be bothered to stop and buy you flowers when he comes to town. He’s too sensitive; it upsets him too much, petty little bourgeois, selfish jackass that he is. Giampaolo has the time to go to his father’s maid’s house and drop off his shirts to be ironed and he has the time to swing by and pick them up, but he doesn’t have the five minutes and 10 euro to stop at the flower stand which is at the entrance to this hospital and buy you even a bunch of violets. Or maybe he doesn’t want to spend the money. But we love him just the same. Mirella has been here day and night for the last five weeks, doing everything she can to make your life easier and the only thing you give her are insults. Well, you can do that, and you can be as mean to her as you want, but you won’t say anything against her while I’m around or I’ll haul off and smack you again. And the next time, I’ll leave a bruise. Have I made myself understood? And if you dare call the nurse, I’ll see to it that they put you in restraints.”

Maria Grazia glared at Licia with her ferocious green eyes, but she relaxed her shoulder muscles. She knew her Aunt Licia would do exactly whatever she promised she would do. Maria Grazia also knew that Aunt Licia was right, but Maria Grazia couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge her daughter’s kindness or recognize her son’s indifference. That was not the world she wanted to live in, and she didn’t have much time to live. She had already railed against the injustice of it all. Lashing out again and again would not make her life easier, although it would give her the simple satisfaction of wantonly hurting another person who deserved to be hurt. 

However, for the moment Maria Grazia decided she would behave and go to sleep as quietly as possible. It wouldn’t be long now anyway. She turned her head to the wall and buried it in her pillow. She heard Mirella enter the room with the cup of tea for her Aunt. The two of them chatted quietly.

Mirella stood up and walked over to the bed and as gently as possible so as not to wake her mother, pulled the sheets and covers into a neat layer over her mother’s body, smoothing out the wrinkles and straightening the hems. Mirella would have kissed her mother, but she was afraid of waking her. When Mirella turned around, she saw that Licia had drifted off too, so Mirella took up a book, moved her chair into the pool of light and continued to read. The nurses padded quietly past the door and Mirella read chapter after chapter of Umberto Eco’s Baudolino. When she got to the end, she closed the book, put it on the night table and looked at the clock: ten minutes to twelve. Easter was almost over. Mirella had eaten her cappelletti the way she liked them, she had finished her book, she had done everything she could to make her mother’s final Easter a little more comfortable. She had finally told her brother what she thought of him, and someone had recognized her kindness and devotion.

Mirella tiptoed over to her mother and kissed her lightly on her forehead before she turned off the light. Maria Grazia didn’t flinch.

When Mirella sat back down in her chair, she realized this was her mother’s last week. It came to her numbly with a mute leaden thud. Mirella knew she was doing everything she could do, and she knew that it wasn’t appreciated, well, not at least perceptibly, by her mother. But Mirella also realized that what she was doing was right, and just, and that was more important than any other consideration; what she was doing was also more important than any other thing she could possibly be doing at this moment. If you are going to be a real adult, a real person, and not a wounded little girl any more, you have to accept the fact that sometimes the people we love for the right or wrong reasons, are cruel and hateful and inconsiderate in their heart of hearts. But that doesn’t mean that you have to be cruel and hateful and inconsiderate in your heart of hearts back to them. Just because you were born in a stable doesn’t meant you have to be a jackass or a turd.

Mirella knew there was only one way to break the chains of ugly emotional legacies: reject them and turn the other cheek. Especially if you’re the person who’s going to live.

---

* Aunt Licia however, was kind enough not to relate everything. When Mamma felt the baby crowning she screeched at the tops of her lungs “But if it’s a girl, push her back in and I’ll reabsorb her! I don’t want no competition.”

April 19, 1992

 Good Friday

“How many eggs do you need?”

Oh, let’s say 80 for the pasta, 40 for the filling; how about ten dozen? That should be enough”

“How many cappelletti are you going to make?

“Well, we should be somewhere between forty and sixty for lunch, you never know who’s going to drop out at the last minute and who’s going to want to bring a friend so I was thinking an egg and a half per head for the pasta and the filling is always half as much. Do you think I need more?”

Viviana paid the poulterer and put the eggs in her black shopping tote with “Cinecittà” picked out in rhinestones on one side. The cartons fit perfectly on top of the two bricks of Parmesan cheese and the little box of nutmegs.

“I sure hope you aren’t going to do this alone.”

Oh no, I’ve got three men rolling out the pasta for me and four old country aunts who’ll close the pasta into capelletti if we all sit down and play cards afterward. It’ll be a nice afternoon.”

“Don’t you need any chickens? I’ve got ten brace of old hens . . .”

“Thanks, but Paolone is going to pull the necks of eight big old capons tonight, so all I‘ve got to do is pluck’em and clean’em and throw’em in the pot. With celery and carrots and onions. I’ll do that tomorrow morning. Thanks! Happy Easter.”

Viviana walked out of the shop into a blustery day. The fog had lifted earlier this morning when a cold wind from the northeast started blowing across the fields. She was making her way to her car across the square when one of Sunday’s guests popped out of nowhere.

“Viviana, how nice to see you. What are you up to?”

“Oh, ciao Amonasro. I‘ve bought my eggs and cheese and I’m off to start the cooking for Sunday.”

“Well, then, you have time for a cup of coffee.”

“I really. . .”

“It’ll only take five minutes. Come on.”

Amonasro clasped Viviana’s elbow and they walked into a café. It was market day so the bar was brimming with farmers in their city best, drinking coffee while their wives were shopping or working at the market. Viviana smiled and resigned herself to not having anything interesting to look at.

“Listen Viviana – two coffees please – I’ve got some bad news; I won’t be able to make it on Sunday.

“What a pity, Paolone was looking forward to seeing you.”

“I know, but Elisabetta and Carlo are coming down from Bologna that day and bringing Elena with them. I’ll need to take them out to a restaurant.”

“Amonasro, you know you’re just fishing for an invitation. Of course they must come, too. You should just go ahead and ask me outright.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you in an embarrassing situation, you’re always so. . .”

“Glad to see Elisabetta and Carlo? You know I am and Paolone wouldn’t miss seeing them for the world either.”

“Well, what should we bring?”

“Oh, whatever you like. Why don’t you let Elena decide so she gets to eat something she particularly likes?”

“Viviana, you know you’re just fishing for dessert. I’ll call them and tell them.”

“Good! See you on Sunday morning – come whenever you want. We’ll be there all morning. Thanks for the coffee.”

Viviana made it to her car and drove out to the farmhouse. This structure was as dilapidated and graceless as it was enormous. A vast mud yard sprawled out around it, and the fields lay fallow fifty feet to the left, right, and back of the house. She slipped off her city shoes, left them on the passenger’s floorboard, and slipped on an old pair of embroidered slippers with mud caked on their sides.

When she got to the kitchen with her groceries, she placed the bags on the table and put the coffee on before even taking her coat off. This was going to be a big afternoon and she would need all of her resources.

She looked at the stanzone or “big room” and saw that all the tables were in order. This all-purpose area was actually an airy stable. Well, it wasn’t exactly a stable any more; Paolone had cleaned it, painted the walls, and put down a cheap ceramic floor about fifteen years ago, before Viviana had met him. The far wall was taken up with mismatched kitchen appliances: a big double mud sink, another smaller sink for washing your hands and dishes, a couple of stoves, a couple of refrigerators and a big horizontal freezer. Ancient credenzas with peeling veneer stood on either side and in the centre of the room were three temporary tables on sawhorses pulled in from the cold storage room. 
          Beyond them sat four big armchairs, an irreparably marred coffee table and what was left of a gigantic sofa that only Paolone used. It was big enough to hold him stretched out completely with his dirty boots still on, and this was where he came in to take a nap if he got tired. In the summer, he often slept there all night, since he was too tired to shower at nine in the evening after spending a full day in the fields. The television held a place of honour next to the fireplace, and over the chimney was a larger than life-sized oil portrait of Mussolni, hailing his people from a balcony bristling with red carnations.

Almost everyone felt immediately at ease in this room. You never had to think about where you were going to sit, what you were going to do, or where the food and drink were. This room was an open book, and once you entered it, you turned to any page you pleased.

No sooner had the coffee perked than Viviana’s first helpers arrived: Ivo and Anna.

“I think we have time for a cup of coffee, don’t you?” Viviana helped them with their coats, poured a round of coffee, and sat down to chat. Ivo had floored the ex-stable and he would be helping Paolone with the new house they were building on the other side of the fields. The new house was going to be fantastic, with a real dining room that would hold two tables, fifteen by three feet each. There would be a place for everyone to sit and eat, any time they wanted to. They wouldn’t have to drag furniture in and out of the cold storage room any more. She had driven past the new house last week off in the distance, its long dirt road running to it between the peach orchards which had been in full flower with their delicate clouds of pink and white blossoms. It was exactly where she wanted to live.

After they finished their coffee, Ivo rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands in the sink while Viviana cleared the table and put a twenty-pound bag of flour on one corner. She placed a rolling board with a rolling pin in the middle of the table, a ten-gallon empty paint bucket beside it, and the eggs on the credenza behind him.

“Alright Viviana. Let’s see if I can roll out a perfect circle.” Ivo’s calloused hands pulled up six great handfuls of flour and dropped them onto a pyramid on the table. He punched a whole in the top with his fingers and thumb and then and broke six eggs into the funnel shaped hole, beating them with an old fork. Later as he kneaded the dough, Anna grated the Parmesan and mixed it with forty eggs. She added big fistfuls of pale white runny sheep cheese to the mixture and grated six whole nutmegs into it. Just before Anna started to cut the pasta into squares, the doorbell rang again.

It was the four country aunts – Mina, Mirna, Mirta and Milva, their heads all wrapped in silk scarves. Viviana kissed each one on both cheeks, gave them a quick hug and ushered them into the farmhouse. After untangling their scarves from their hair and earrings and taking off their coats, they washed their hands, put on their aprons, and set to work. They grabbed demitasse spoons and daubed a little of Anna’s filling onto each square of pasta. Then with a single movement that was as nonchalant as it was elegant and expert, they folded each square around the filling into triangles, twisted the triangles into tiny little hats and lined up the little hats into apple-pie-orderly rows of on a large pastry tray. It took them a little more than seven seconds to make each hat.

Viviana kept busy, making pot after pot of coffee as more people arrived and before you knew it, the house had turned into a cottage industry. A pharmacist and Viviana’s insurance agent were rolling out pasta on the large dining room tables, wrapping it around their rolling pins and taking it over to the kitchen area where Anna would cut the pasta into squares and hand it over to the aunts. The music was on and everyone was humming and chatting. In what took hours, but seemed like no time, the aunts were filling the tenth large tray with the tiny little hats while the men were washing their hands. Viviana was now sweeping the dining area of the little flour that the men had accidentally spilled onto the floor. They were quite proud they could roll out six eggs of pasta dough so thin you could read an article in the newspaper through it.

Paolone burst into the door about this time, took one look at the pharmacist’s wife and trumpeted out in dialect, “Damn, but you’re a curious little hussy, ain’t you?”

She laughed at him, as did everyone else. She was Paolone’s sister and they adored one another. Paolone turned to Viviana who was laying the green playing felt on the kitchen table. He grabbed her face between his two ham hock hands and kissed her on the nose with a loud smack.

“If the women are going to play, I guess that means the men are going to drink through the first round, don’t it? I suppose I should fill up some bottles from the demijohn in the basement.”

Viviana winked at him and responded. “Well, I guess the only reason you drink is because you know can’t win at cards against us, so I suppose that’s just what you need to do. Do you want a hot cup of coffee first?”

“Nahh. You just keep doing what you need to do and I’ll be fine.”

The country aunts had seated themselves in the meantime and were shuffling the cards.

“Viviana, aren’t you going to play with us?”

“Oh, I’ll sit in when one of you needs to take a break. I want to get these cappelletti into the cold storeroom. The kitchen’s in perfect order. Thanks for helping.”

They were cutting the cards at that point and Viviana knew they would not pay attention to anyone until the first round was over. Paolone came back with two big bottles of red wine swinging in his hands and Viviana stacked some glasses and took them into the living room area where the men were watching the television and smoking.

“This one has a long story,” said Mina as she dragged a card along the felt to the centre of the table.

“Santé” said the men as they clinked their thick clear glasses filled with wine. Viviana pulled a plate of cold cuts out of the refrigerator and laid it on the rude coffee table amid their thanks.

They would all be gone in an hour, off their separate ways to their homes and Viviana would start fixing dinner. In the meantime, Paolone would pull the necks on those capons and hang them in the cold storage room. Then Paolone and Viviana would eat their dinner without speaking, only because they would watch television the whole time.

Just as Viviana was about to take her place at the card table, the doorbell rang. It was Viviana’s city aunt.

“Oh, well, it looks like you’ve finished cooking for Easter.”

“Hardly that Jolanda, but I am finished for today. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Why that is just what I was hoping you would say. Hello everybody!”

The men and the women turned and smiled and went back to their TV and cards.

“Viviana, are you coming to the vigil with me this evening?”

“Jolanda, you’re kind to ask, but, well, I’ve got to fix dinner here and I have another big day in front of me tomorrow getting ready for Sunday. You’ll all be here, won’t you?”

“Of course, we will, but I mean Viviana, Easter is about our Lord and Saviour. You might want to go to church, mightn’t you?”

“I’d love to if I had the time. I just . . . “

“Remember the parable of Mary and Martha?”

“About the lazy spinster who sat on her big behonkus and listened to Jesus go on and on while her grumpy spinster sister swept the floors, made sure the meat didn’t overcook, emptied the chamber pots, and moaned and whined the whole time about having to do it all herself? Oh yes, I remember that story.”

“You’re the perfect example of Martha, who . . .”

“What are you talking about? Do I sound grumpy? Do I look harried and overworked? Have I been grousing with these people here?”

“You know what I mean about Mary and Martha.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean. I’m not a spinster either for that matter.”

“No, but you’re separated from your husband, aren’t you? You’re all alone.”

“Jolanda, there is not enough room in this house to be alone if Paolone is even sitting in his car outside. What do you really want to tell me, Jolanda?”

“Viviana, what makes you go to all this trouble? I mean look at the life you had with Angelo. You had all the help you needed: two full time maids and you dined in the best restaurants in town. You led a life of real ease and comfort, and what have you given it up for? A ramshackle old barn on the edge of town.”

“All right, let’s get this over with once and for all, without any spite, without any more sarcastic little comments, without any more barbs. I wish I could make you understand. My life used to be a lot less trouble, but it was also a lot less fun. I mean, Angelo and I ate out five days a week, and in case you’re still wondering, I still can afford to eat out that often, so the way I lead my life is not a question of expense or convenience. Going to restaurants bored me. It still does. And frankly, the food is never as good as what you can make at home. You know that, too. What really gives me satisfaction is seeing all of my friends and relatives together under one roof eating delicious, wholesome food and enjoying each other.

"While we’re on the subject of Jesus, let’s go ahead and talk about him, too. He certainly didn’t need to come down to Earth; wasn’t he better off up in heaven singing and flying around with everybody traipsing about in sheets and praising him and praying to him? What could have possibly pushed him to come to Earth and suffer?”

“He came to earth to wash us of our sins and give us everlasting life. Isn’t that what the Bible says?”

“That’s what the Bible says but I don’t recall Jesus ever actually stating that in so many words. I’ll tell you what I think. I think Jesus was just plain bored. I mean, being God and all that, he could never even lose at cards, now could he since he always knew what cards everyone was holding? He knew who was going to win the UEFA soccer cup, years ahead of time, so there was no use in betting or even sitting around to watch it since there would be no surprises.”

“There was no UEFA Cup in Galilee when Our Lord walked the Earth.”

“Yes, but He knew there would be one, one day.”

“Viviana, this is bordering on sacrilege.”

“Then perhaps, you might want to talk about something else that does not concern Jesus or my life or the church or my former husband. I didn’t bring any of this up. All I did was offer you a cup of coffee. Did you come here just to pick on me?”

“No, you know I didn’t. I was just hoping you would come to church with me for the vigil this evening.  But I don’t suppose you have the time.”

Viviana quickly discarded the slight irritation that Jolanda had brought on. Jolanda did mean well, and Viviana knew it.

“Thank you Jolanda, it is kind of you to think of me and to drop by, but I’ll take a rain check.”

“Well, do you need any help for Sunday?”

(Viviana thought:

Jolanda could pluck the chickens and butcher them or make meatballs with the boiled meat tomorrow or wash the vegetables or grill them over the fire or make the cream for the trifle or on Sunday she could sweep the floor or set the table or wash up afterwards.)

 Jolanda continued:

“I do have a couple of hours tomorrow after lunching with our priest before I go to the hairdresser’s and then to Mass.”

Viviana realized Jolanda wouldn’t gladly do any of the above in her Chanel suit, so she said:

“Oh no, thank you I think everything is under control. The main task was getting the cappelletti rolled and stuffed, and that’s all done. Just bring your family over on Sunday.”

“Which brings me to my last point: would it be a terrible imposition if we brought Lorenzo’s mother with us? Otherwise she’ll be all alone since Lorenzo’s sister is spending Easter with her husband’s parents.”

Viviana looked Jolanda directly in the eye and smiled broadly and sweetly. “Of course you can, you hardly need to ask. I am always glad to see old Signora Amadesi.”

Jolanda sighed in relief. Viviana now knew this was the main reason Jolanda had stopped by even if Jolanda tried to be nonchalant about the whole matter. Viviana hadn’t gone to a Mass in five years except for funerals and weddings, Jolanda did not like to cook very much, and Easter dinner for five at a restaurant would cost as much as a pair of good shoes. Viviana had been on the verge of saying:

“Well, why don’t you take your mother-in-law out to a restaurant? It’s so much less trouble.”

           But she didn’t. Viviana did not encourage spiteful conversations. Besides, the card players were calling for her to sit in on a round of Snipe the Romagnol version of bridge so Viviana excused herself from Jolanda and went over to sit at her rampart overlooking the green felt plain. Jolanda pulled her coat on and said good-bye to all the men and women in the room. “See you all on Sunday!” she chirped and walked out the door.

“This one knocks hard,” said Viviana as she thumped the table with her knuckles and laid down the Jack of Cups.

Viviana’s partner Mina smiled at her. Mirna laid down a club and Mirta laid down her whole hand. Viviana had won the game with her first hand at the first round.

“Well, Miz Luckybutt, I don’t know what the use of playing with you is. You seem to know where all the trumps are,” said Mirna with good-natured hauteur.

“Oh, I don’t know about that but I do know enough to sit down and enjoy myself even when I don’t know that I’m going to win. I do know how to play a lucky hand when somebody deals me one.”

The men were starting to stand up because the game was over, and it was getting close to dinnertime. Viviana stood as well.

“Sorry aunties, I guess you wouldn’t enjoy playing against me today anyway since I’m having a winning streak. I’ll let you get back at me on Sunday.”

“Oh no you won’t, you with your golden little heinie! We’ll all be over tomorrow morning without the men! Who’s going to pluck all those chickens and butcher them and make the meatballs and wash the vegetables and grill them and make the cream for the trifle and sweep and clean the dishes afterwards?”

“Oh really, I can . . .”

“You can stop when you’re winning at cards alright, but we’ll see how well you do with trumps after we’re finished with the food tomorrow morning. You just can’t squirm your way out of this one.”

Viviana smiled and suddenly realized she was not going to have enough coffee for all them tomorrow morning, or enough time to go get it.

“Well, you’ve got some gall, inviting yourselves over at the drop of a hat. I’ll say that. You could at least offer to pick up some coffee on the way here since you drank up every toasted milled bean in the house.”

“Coffee! Is that the only reason you want us to come, so you don’t have to buy your own coffee? Well, if you’re that tight and mean, I imagine we’ll be here at half past nine with two pounds of the cheapest brand we can find. All right?”

“Fine! Be sure and wear your old sweaters . . .”

“We know what to wear to beat you at cards little Miss Piglet without a Tail. Nine-thirty sharp. And don’t invite any men. We’ll all have our hair up: in curlers!”

Everyone was now standing around outside the front door in the mud and they burst out laughing at this mock bickering between Viviana and her country aunts. Viviana stood and waved good-bye at them as Paolone came out, cupping her left flank as he passed by her out of the warmth of the farmhouse. Viviana looked up at the moon shining on the fallow fields and all that mud. She pulled her sweater closer around her shoulders and sighed as she thought of her aunt Jolanda, who of course would arrive on Sunday for Easter Dinner with her husband and two sons and her Mother-in-law and a big tray of miniature pastries. Since Jolanda would go to Mass, her family would be a little late for socializing with the other guests, but you can be sure they would be right in pole position when the four-gallon pots of cappelletti and broth were placed on the tables.

Viviana knew just what Jolanda was like but Viviana did not have the time or malice to judge her aunt. Viviana sighed, not because she was peeved at Jolanda or even out of sympathy for her. Viviana sighed out of relief that she did not live in Jolanda’s little world confined to ease and comfort. Viviana heard Paolone insulting the chickens as he chased them around the coop out back, caught them, and wrung their necks with merciful deftness. Viviana turned to walk into the house and the little pool of yellow light on the mud retreated inside the jamb as she closed the door behind her.