Rare Objects. Kathleen Tessaro
I looked across at Angela; I was speaking to her more than anyone else. “I was working as a private secretary for a very wealthy man. Quite a difficult character, very demanding … I wanted to come, really I did.”
We all knew I wasn’t being honest. My story didn’t explain why I hadn’t written or called.
“Well, I’m just glad you’re here now,” Angela said, in that way she had of simply closing the door on anything difficult or unpleasant. “It’s good to have you back.” Then, popping a fresh loaf of bread into a paper bag and handing it across the counter to Mr. Ventadino, she flashed me a naughty smile. “La mia bella dai capelli biondi!”
“Ah, bella!” Mr. Ventadino laughed, eyeing me up and down. “Molto bella!”
The old men at the tables by the window laughed too, and Mrs. Russo rolled her eyes. “Girls! Comportatevi bene!”
Comportatevi bene—Italian for “behave yourself”—was the constant refrain of our childhood. When we were together, five minutes didn’t go by without Mrs. Russo saying it, usually with a rolled-up newspaper in her hand, ready to whack one or both of us on the back of the head.
Mrs. Russo turned to me, her face serious. She had a way of looking straight into your eyes, as if she could see right down into your soul. “Come stai davvero?”
“Bene. Meglio, grazie. E tu?” I answered.
When Mrs. Russo spoke in Italian, I knew all was forgiven.
“Bene, bene.” As she counted change and handed it to Mr. Ventadino, she shook her finger at us. “You girls need to grow up. And you!” She gave Mr. Ventadino a dark look too. “Dovreste vergognarvi di voi stesso! And how is your mother, Mae? I hope she’s well.”
Mrs. Russo had the knack of switching between conversations; she could reprimand Mr. Ventadino and still set an example for her daughter of civilized manners without missing a beat.
I stepped aside so Mr. Ventadino could slink past. “She’s fine, thank you.”
Mrs. Russo always asked after my mother, even though she didn’t entirely approve of her. After all the years they’d known each other, theirs was nonetheless a formal acquaintance, maintained by courtesy rather than affection. I suspected it had something to do with the fact that Ma had never married again, a fundamental feeling Mrs. Russo had about the wrongness of a young widow raising a child on her own when she could have easily taken another husband and had more children. In her world, independence was an extravagance, a kind of selfishness.
In truth, I’d always been torn between Ma and the formidable Maddalena Russo. I’d spent so much time in the Russos’ household growing up that she was a second mother to me—only of the more traditional variety.
Small and strong, fiercely disciplined, and certain of everything, Maddalena Russo never doubted, never questioned. She knew. The Russo home was strict, loud, vivid, and real. Nothing else existed nor needed to exist beyond the North End. It was an entirely self-sufficient universe. When I was younger, I used to pretend that I’d been left on the Russos’ doorstep one night as a baby, and they’d adopted me as their own. It was a betrayal I couldn’t resist, and my affection was transparent to everyone—including my mother.
“Is that a new hat?” Mrs. Russo nodded approvingly. “Very handsome!”
“It used to have a net, but it was torn … my mother fixed it for me.” I was babbling. “Anyway, I stopped in for a zaletti. I’m celebrating, you see. I got a job today.”
“Congratulations!” Angela beamed.
Pina passed a tray of fresh biscotti to her mother. “What you need is a husband!”
“Maybe I’m not the marrying type.”
Mrs. Russo clucked reprovingly. “Why do you say that? Any man would be happy to have you!”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you know!” Pina and her mother looked at each other and laughed. “Don’t talk crazy!”
Reaching over, Angela handed a zaletti wrapped in waxed paper across to me. “I’ll stop by later.”
“I’d like that.”
I tried to give her a nickel for the zaletti, but she wouldn’t take it. “Go on, now. Tell your mother the good news.”
I lowered my voice. “I really am sorry, Ange. About missing your wedding.” I knew I’d hurt her, and I knew too that she had too much pride to let me see how much. “How was it?”
“It was lovely.”
“You should’ve been there.” Pina wouldn’t leave us alone for a minute. “Oh, that’s right! You were too busy taking notation for millionaires. One of these days, Jean Harlow, you’re going to have to wake up and realize you’re just like the rest of us.”
When I got home, Ma was scraping carrots in the kitchen. “Is that you, Maeve?” she called when she heard me come in.
“Who else would it be, Ma?”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic. Where have you been?”
I paused in the doorway. Potatoes, onion, celery … she was making a stew again. There was only ever the smallest bit of beef, a cheap cut softened with the hours of slow braising. She made it last through the week, adding extra potatoes to cheat it out.
“I got the job, actually,” I told her, setting the zaletti down on the table with a flourish.
She stared at it; I think she’d half hoped I wouldn’t get the position and then would dye my hair back. But of course work was always better than no work. “Good,” she said finally. “So, what’s it like?”
“Fancy. Very posh.” I hung up my coat on the hook in the hallway, pulled off my gloves. “You know, they have a silver service there that costs as much as a house! I showed it to a woman this afternoon.”
“Did she buy it?”
“No. But only because apparently it was missing lobster tongs. Have you ever even heard of lobster tongs?”
She frowned, began paring the potatoes into quarters. “Do you get commission?”
I checked the coffeepot on the stove. “I only just got the job, Ma!”
“You should ask for commission.”
“It’s just me and the old man.” I poured a cup. It had been too long brewing and was bitter and strong. I drank it anyway.
“What difference does that make?” She tossed the potatoes in the cooking pot. “A sale is a sale!”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t made a sale yet.”
“And they’re not going to fall into your lap!” she warned, pointing the paring knife at me. “You need to be friendly. Outgoing.”
“I am friendly!”
“But you’re not outgoing, Maeve!” She scraped the carrots so hard one snapped in two. “You’re an introvert. Even as a baby you were quiet. All that time spent in your room reading!” She shook her head. “Too much time daydreaming—that’s always been your trouble! You have to make a concerted effort. You need to act like you’re the hostess at a party!”
What had gotten into her today? “Didn’t you hear me? I got the job!”
She stopped, wiped her hands on her apron. “Mrs. Shaw’s retiring next week.”
“Does that mean …”
“It means they’ve hired a new saleswoman in Ladies Wear. And it isn’t me,” she added bitterly.
Here was the