Bellagrand Page 14

  “But you said . . .”

  “That’s what they told me. I think they changed their minds because of the war. They don’t want troublemakers on the streets. Nothing but a headache for the police.”

  “Not even for Christmas?” She tried not to sound despondent. “What do I tell him? Oh God. Even the Germans and the French declared a ceasefire for Christmas.”

  “Perhaps your husband should’ve been a Frog or a Kraut then. His bad luck is to be an American who wants to wreak havoc here because the Frogs and the Krauts are having a fistfight there.”

  “Are your loyalties divided?” Harry asks Gina on a cold December Sunday after she relates to him the awful news from Purdy about the parole. At first he is so upset he can’t even talk about it.

  “What?” She stumbles in her speech, trembles.

  He stares at her petulantly. “What’s the matter with you? I meant, do you wish your home country Italy was on Germany’s side?”

  “Why in the world would I wish this? I’m an American now. And we’re not at war.”

  “Yet. Did you march against the war last Saturday as you promised me you would?”

  “Quietly, but yes,” she says. “I was a good antiwar American, me and Emma Goldman and fifteen hundred others. Do you care that you and she sound exactly the same when you talk about this war?”

  “There are no anarchists or socialists when it comes to imperialist wars,” he says. “Everyone should be on the same side.”

  “You’re lucky I wasn’t arrested like you,” she tells him. “Then where would we be? Who’d visit us?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “You barely visit me.”

  She glides over his words as if she hasn’t heard him.

  “Apparently the arrests are getting more common and the convictions harsher. The constables were quite angry with us.”

  “How angry? . . . Lawrence angry?”

  They stop speaking, even looking at each other. What more is there to say after that? When the time comes, she leaves, almost runs, without telling him a single piece of Rose’s wisdom for the week, and he doesn’t ask her for one.

  Five

  “BEN, HOW IS IT that you didn’t find yourself a nice Panamanian girl and settle down?”

  “Who says I didn’t?”

  They were on Broadway in Lawrence walking between rows of Christmas trees. Gina was determined to make this a good Christmas for her mother. Salvo was in between girls, and the intemperate mother of his child had found a fisherman from Maine and moved to Acadia, taking Mary with her. Salvo was drowning his sorrows at the local tavern and with the local girls. Gina invited Ben for Christmas, but he had to spend it with his own mother. “If only to keep her from getting herself arrested for her antiwar fervor. I keep warning her they’re about to pass the Espionage Act. No more small infractions for civil disobedience. Every cross word against the war is about to be called high treason. Does Mother listen to me? Never has, never will. I have to do what I can to save her from herself.”

  But Gina needed his help tonight carrying the tree, so Ben was helping her.

  “Where is this girl?” she asked.

  “Which girl are you talking about?”

  “Ha!”

  “Believe it or not, you have to be quite careful with the girls in Panama, too,” Ben said. “Their fathers and brothers carry lethal weapons. It’s almost like Sicily.”

  “Who would think?” she said with a delighted chortle. “Everywhere you go in the world, silly men keep trying to protect their daughters and sisters.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Because only men know so well what men are like?”

  “Exactly!” They both laughed.

  They found a tree, not too large, not too small, just right. Ben paid for it, and they each grabbed an end and walked from Essex to Summer Street carrying it between them through the twinkling evening. December was a good month to walk in Lawrence. There was no washing on the streets. It was crowded, the Christmas lights were up, music played from the open shops, people were happily buying gifts.

  “There is a girl waiting for me back in Panama,” Ben said. “But she doesn’t want to live here, and I’m not sure I want to live there.” He paused, catching a breath. Gina, too, was panting. The tree was heavy. “She still writes me.”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  They struggled to get the tree inside, broke off several of the branches, then trimmed it in her small parlor room near the porch window. “Is she a nice girl, Ben? What’s her name?”

  “Ingersol. She’s nice.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “No, I prefer my women deeply unattractive,” Ben said. “Of course she’s pretty.” Smiling, he recalled her. “In Panama the women have a very natural look to them. But they wear a lot of gold jewelry.”

  “Real gold?” She jangled the bracelets Harry had given her long ago.

  “I don’t know about that. But their dress, called the pollera, is all white, and has gold accents on the hem and around the puffy sleeves. It’s very feminine. Different from here. The dress is always white, for purity, for innocence, I guess, but it’s got ruffles everywhere, and gold buttons and in the back there’s a train almost like a peacock tail.” He shook his head in amusement. “So yes, white, but a come-hither-and-marry-me white.”

  “So the best kind?”

  “Not if you don’t want to get married.”

  Gina nudged him lightly. “You’re funny. So what do you eat for your Christmas meal in Panama? Maybe I can make it for you here next time you come.”

  “Can you make chicken tamales?”

  She didn’t know what those were.

  “Arroz con pollo?” he asked. “Rice with chicken. Pavo? That’s turkey. Relleno? Stuffing. Something called Puerca asada pernil, a meat dish? Eggnog. Lots of fruit.” He grinned widely. “Bananas, red and yellow.”

  “You’re funny with the bananas. Did you say eggnog?”

  “Eggnog like you’ve never had in your life.”

  “Well, certainly, that’s true, since I’ve never had eggnog.”

  They were done with the tree and with dinner. Mimoo was upstairs with Rita listening to the radio in Rita’s attic apartment, and Gina and Ben had a few moments to themselves with tea and honey cake before he had to drive back.

  “You’ve never had this eggnog. It’s called ron ponche. Rum punch.”

  She got up and went to the cupboard to get out a pitcher and two glasses. “Do I have any of the ingredients? Maybe I can make some for you tonight.”

  “Let’s see.” He went to stand by her at the counter. “Do you have sweetened condensed milk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Evaporated milk?”

  She pulled down three cans.

  “Eggs? We’ll need six of them.”

  She got out a half-dozen eggs.

  “Nutmeg? We don’t absolutely need it. I’ll bring some next time I come. What about rum?”

  She found some rum hiding in the back of a cupboard, from the old days of Joe and Arturo. And Angela. Days long passed. Nowadays Arturo was writing love poetry to another lucky girl in Washington State and Smiling Joe owned a fruit orchard in San Clemente, California. Angela was at St. Mary’s.

  Ben combined the ingredients, stirred them vigorously, poured the concoction into the glasses. They clinked.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  She drank.

  “Ben,” she said, pupils dilating, eyes widening. “I don’t think you should drive home tonight after drinking this. You won’t be able to see straight. I’ll barely be able to make it upstairs to my bedroom.”

  “Yes, I know. I told you. Good, isn’t it?”

  “Quite good.”

  “But don’t worry. If you fall I’ll carry you upstairs.”

  “Upstairs to my bedroom?”

  He said no more and she said no more. They stood quietly side by side, leaning against the c
ounter, sipping their eggnog.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said.

  “Should we have more to drink before you do?”

  “What do Salvo and Mimoo think of me picking you up, bringing you home, having dinner here, being around?”

  Gina swayed a little.

  “I ask because Salvo especially doesn’t seem to mind. And Mimoo is crotchety, but she is like that even with you and we know she loves you, so . . .”

  “Yes. You’re right about Mimoo. And Salvo would prefer Harry stay in prison for life, so he’s just peachy with it. But they do loudly judge me when you’re not around.”

  “Tell them I’m your friend, Gia.”

  “They know. I told them. I like my friends, Ben.”

  “Yes, me too.”

  I need my friends, she wanted to tell him, having drunk too much eggnog, but didn’t. “You’re sure you can’t spend Christmas with us?” She smiled. “I’ll make you tamale fritos chickita con flan or whatever you said.”

  “What red-blooded man could say no to that? But my only living parent would disown me. I don’t want Harry and me to have that in common, too.”

  They glanced at each other and away. Swaying, she held on to the counter. He didn’t finish his drink. He left soon after, wisely, but not before he bent and kissed the palms of her hands, one after the other, pressing his warm, eggnog-moistened lips into them for a long moment.

  Six

  “FAIRYLAND POND HAS BEEN frozen solid over a month!” Ben exclaimed. “Want to go ice skating?”

  “Go do what?”

  January 1915 was cold like Gina didn’t remember ever being cold. For many reasons told and untold she liked being in Concord on the weekends. Told: because Rose kept the house warm for her sick patients, while in Lawrence, she and Mimoo couldn’t afford the heating bills. So unless the stove was on, there was no heat.

  Reasons untold: “Ice skating!”

  Ben smiled happily, showing her an open bag that contained two pairs of lace-up boots with blades on the bottom. It was a Saturday afternoon and they were done with Rose’s work early.

  “What are those?”

  “Ice skates.”

  She took one skate out of the bag, examined it, frowned. “You want me to put these on and go stand on a pond?”

  “Not stand, skate.”

  “Ben, there is something about me you probably don’t know,” Gina said, carefully replacing the skate in the bag. “I was born and raised in Sicily. You clearly have never heard of Sicily, but it’s a very beautiful island in the Mediterranean Sea. The southern part of this sea borders Africa. I’m not sure how much you know about world geography, but Africa transects the equator. Italians don’t have ice. Italians don’t skate. We swim.”

  Ben was unperturbed. “Too cold for swimming.”

  “Yes,” she agreed heartily. “Too cold to be outside at all. How about you wait fifteen minutes, let me finish up here, and we walk next door? I’ll make a nice cup of mulled apple cider and we can sit by the fire, warm up, and talk about books?”

  “We can do that after we skate.” He took hold of her wrist, squeezing it lightly. “Come with me. It’ll be fun.”

  “Nothing done in subfreezing temperatures on ice, wearing knives on your feet, can ever be considered fun.”

  He parked his car on Walden Street and they inched their way down the steep woodsy paths of Hapgood-Wright Forest to Fairyland Pond. They stood for a moment and stared through the white-covered trees down deep into the clearing where dozens of children and couples glided on an icy shimmering oval.

  “Told you,” he said. “Fun.”

  “Look, that poor child just fell.”

  “And got back up again and skated.”

  Gina pretended to be trepidatious, but secretly she was thrilled.

  “Is it really called Fairyland?” she asked as they made their way down the hill.

  “Rumor is,” Ben told her, “the Alcott and the Emerson children named it. Ask Rose later. She would know. She seems to know everything. Now come. Stop delaying. You’re walking deliberately slow.”

  “It’s steep. I’m being cautious. You don’t want me to fall, do you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  She mulled over his answer. “How thick is that ice?”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “On the plus side, it’s not that deep.”

  “Ben!”

  Getting the skates on her feet was an ordeal, but nothing compared to what it was like when she finally stepped out onto the ice. Instantly she went down, her feet sliding out from under her.

  A laughing Ben helped her up, but as soon as he let go, she fell again. After that, she sat on a bench near an old toothless woman with a cane and watched Ben skate around the pond by himself waving to her as he spiraled in circles.

  “Come on, try again,” he kept calling.

  She kept shaking her head. “When did you learn to skate like that?”

  “I grew up in New England. Everybody skates.”

  “Not everybody. Not Harry.”

  Ben smiled. “Oh, indeed Harry. He’s an excellent skater. Better than me. He and I played hockey together in Barrington when we were kids.”

  “Harry played hockey?” She was dumbfounded. “You are talking about Harry, my husband, right?”

  “You think all he does is read books?” He helped her off the bench, leading her onto the ice.

  “Ben, all he does is read books.” She tried not to put too grim a point on it.

  “Well, before he became a bookworm, he was quite the skater,” said Ben, holding her hand tight. “Now, wait, wait—don’t do what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing?” she said, falling.

  “Falling.” He picked her up again. “Wait! No, don’t do that—Gina, look at me,” he said, turning her to face him. “Keep your knees slightly bent, you’re not walking, you’re gliding; tilt your body forward, arms at your sides, slightly out, and now . . . bend and push, with alternating feet. Bend and push with your right, then bend and push with your left. Look at my feet.”

  “You just told me to look at you.”

  “Okay, but now look at my feet. Watch. Don’t worry, if you fall, I’ll catch you. On first bounce, promise. Come!”

  He held her hand and she tried. After another half a dozen slips and falls, she almost succeeded in standing up on the ice for five or six seconds. Ben was so balanced, so graceful on his skates, and he laughed at her as if he didn’t understand how someone couldn’t instantly grasp gliding on a quarter-inch metal edge over a sheet of ice.

  She clutched his hand and pretended it was for balance.

  And he didn’t let go and pretended it was for safety.

  She did it! She moved one foot and slid forward and then the other and slid forward some more. She was so happy she clapped—and promptly fell again.

  “I told you not to let go,” Ben said, both arms under hers, helping her up.

  They were on the ice for over two hours. He had to drag her away after it got dark. The town had strung up white lights on the bare trees around the pond, and Gina thought it was magical, like skating on white diamonds. She wished they could stay.

  On the way to dinner, and at dinner, all Gina could talk about was the skating. “You were right. I admit that was a lot of fun. But I still don’t understand how you do the things you do—how do you skate backward, without falling?” Her nose, her cheeks, her hands were still cold; she didn’t care. “It’s amazing. You’re amazing on that ice. I like watching you.” She became more sedate. “I had a good time. Where did you get the skates? Maybe . . .” She broke off.

  Ben watched her joyfully, from across the candlelit table, his head tilted forward. “Maybe what? We can go again? Maybe we can get you your own pair of skates?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  She dreamed about the ice while they shared a slice of warm apple pie.

  “What do you think the ice is doing when no one is on it? L
ike now?”

  “What is the ice doing? I suppose it’s just sitting there under the trees getting more icy.”

  “Do you think the lights are still on? Or does an orderly come around and turn them off?”

  “I don’t know.” Ben thought for a moment, chewing his lip. “What are you asking me? After dinner, what? Do you want to go and see if the lights are still on?”

  She almost clapped. “But no, no—I can’t. I can’t walk down those woods in the dark. We’ll wait.” She was disappointed. “But the lights won’t be on in the daytime. We won’t see them.”

  “So let’s go now.”

  “Where does the electricity come from to light them?”

  “I think they’re kerosene lights.”

  “Oh.” She deflated. “So they must burn out. When the kerosene oil runs out, the lights turn off.” The secret of the magic lights revealed, she sank in her chair.

  They went for a walk through the town park after dinner. The paths were still lit up by the kerosene lamps in the snow-covered trees.

  “If only there were a small pond here,” she said, “we wouldn’t have to walk down deep into that grisly forest.”

  His hand on her forearm tightened. “There is a small pond here,” he said.

  “There isn’t!”

  Ben knew about these things, about taverns and ice rinks and ponds all over Concord, and of course he was right. It was a tiny pond, a glorified puddle, and the lights didn’t twinkle, they were dim in the distance as he laced up her skates, laced up his, and led her onto the frozen milk. She laughed and glided. She couldn’t believe she had joy again and at nighttime too. They were alone. She stumbled and fell and he caught her, their woolen coats snowy and icy, with mittens on their hands and hats on their heads. He stood close while she was still laughing and then took off his hat and held it in his hand.

  “Why did you take off your hat?” she asked.

  “Because,” he replied quietly, nearly whispering, “no gentleman can kiss a true lady without first taking off his hat.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, inaudibly.