An Italian Wife Read online

  On Mondays, the rag man came. He walked down the street calling, “Rags! Rags for sale!” His rags spilled from pails attached to a wire pole that he carried across his shoulders. He wore rags too, the rag man. Tied around his head, his neck, his waist, his wrists and ankles. The rag man was colorful, a burst of brightness every Monday afternoon. Josephine looked forward to hearing him call out his arrival, and always felt disappointed if he failed to come, which happened from time to time because the rag man was a drunk.

  The coal man came on Tuesdays. Covered in soot, with grime in every crease and hole, the coal man drove his dirty red truck up and down the streets, spilling coal as he went. The neighborhood children ran behind the truck, collecting the pieces that fell. Josephine didn’t like the coal man. She didn’t like the way black grime lay beneath his fingernails, or how he blew his nose, releasing a stream of black snot into a dirty handkerchief. The coal man coughed and sniffed and cleared his thick phlegmy throat. Josephine imagined he cried black tears and urinated black piss. Still, when her daughter Isabella gave her a lump of coal that had fallen from his truck, Josephine buried it in a secret place, believing that, if left alone, it would turn into a diamond. Even now, she liked things that sparkled.

  On Wednesdays, Tino the Turnip came with his horse-drawn wagon filled with fruits and vegetables. He was called Turnip because he was long and thin and covered in warts. Still, he always had the freshest fruits and vegetables. And he always brought something exotic: peaches or grapefruit. The prices for these were especially dear, but he was known to give them away for free at the end of the day, along with any bruised or half-rotten fruit he hadn’t sold. Josephine would ask him to save her anything that no one else wanted, and late Wednesday afternoons, Tino the Turnip would come and leave her a basket of red peppers gone soft, string beans that were too thin, smashed raspberries. Once, he left her a mango. Another time, a green vegetable with hard, bumpy skin that even Tino didn’t know the name for.

  Jacques LaSalle came by noisily and early on Thursday mornings. He sharpened knives, bought and sold pans, shod horses, collected cans. Anything metal, Jacques took care of. Josephine avoided him if she could, and never let her children roam the streets until she heard him clink away. Jacques did not button his pants and let his penis swing free. He was simpleminded, everyone said. He meant no harm, he was just an idiot. But Josephine didn’t like to see that long, pencil-thin penis hanging out. When he moved, climbing in or out of his cart, bending forward to set the sharpening wheel spinning, his penis swung left and right. Once, Josephine noticed it was partially erect, and she felt queasy around him after that.

  Fridays were the best. On Fridays, the ice man came. In a way, he was the complete opposite of the coal man, everything about him sleek and clean and cold. Where the coal man was black, the ice man was blue. He swung enormous blocks of ice from his truck with large metal tongs, smooth and easy. Josephine liked watching him work his way up the street toward her house, liked his smooth, tanned hands, the half-moon of his fingernails. His name was Alfredo Petrocelli, and he came from a village in the Old Country not far from her own. Josephine looked forward to his arrival. When she saw Alfredo, she knew it was Friday, and another week was coming to an end.

  But in June of that summer of 1918, right after her son, Carmine, left for Coney Island to make his fortune, Alfredo Petrocelli did not come with ice. Josephine was already feeling all wrong inside. How else could a person feel after her only son decided to leave home for a strange place like Coney Island?

  Carmine had been born exactly nine months after Josephine arrived in America. She had been met at the docks in New York by Vincenzo’s cousin from Jersey City. All of the people in Vincenzo’s family had that same pushed-in face, and she remembered thinking that if they never had children, it would be better than having ones that looked like that. (As it turned out, the two youngest girls had that unfortunate face. The others were all beautiful, with large, aquiline noses and full, pouty mouths). The cousin—she never learned his name—escorted her to the train station, handed her a ticket, helped her with her trunk, and walked away before the train even left the station. Josephine sat, clutching her ticket, her heart doing strange flips and flops as a swirl of people speaking English surrounded her. The language sounded harsh. Unwelcoming. But soon she relaxed, watching the lights of cities and seaside towns pass before her. America was a shiny place, Josephine learned. It glittered. She believed she could be happy there, even with Vincenzo.

  That night, even though she was tired and achy and hungry from so many weeks of travel, Vincenzo climbed on top of her and moved around inside her five or six times, then collapsed beside her. In the nine years since he had married her right before going off to America, she had forgotten what he looked like exactly, until she saw the cousin from Jersey City. She had forgotten this part too. Or rather, she had remembered that he required a minute or two of her time, that it felt like nothing but an itch she wanted to scratch, and then it was over. Since she had last seen her husband, he had grown fat, so although it was as quick as before, his weight on top of her made it hard to breathe. Still, she could hold her breath until he was done. Then Josephine would sit up, take long deep breaths, and go and wash herself. By the time she got back into bed, Vincenzo was snoring.

  During her first couple of weeks in America, they didn’t talk very much. He went off to work in the mill that sat on the river at the bottom of the hill, and she did the same types of chores she had done back home. She baked bread and made pasta and tended the garden; she darned his clothes and crocheted a blanket for their bed; she stewed and bottled and canned fruits and vegetables; she walked to the church and helped the nuns clean the altar and dress the saints. Life in America, Josephine thought those first weeks, was very much like life in the Old Country. All of her neighbors spoke Italian and they had all come from villages right near her own. Vincenzo didn’t have the same desire he’d had when they got married. Every few nights, he forced her legs apart and heaved his fat body on top of hers. Push, push, push, push. Done. Holding her breath, Josephine began to count how many thrusts it took him to finish. It was never more than six.

  After her first week in America, Josephine fell asleep smiling. Here, there was always someone to gossip with while picking the ripe tomatoes. There was always someone with news of the war, or someone who knew details of Father Leone’s life. It was said he was from Florence, an artist himself, perhaps of noble birth. He was so holy, Josephine was told, that the pope wrote him letters of admiration and respect. In America, things grew with more abandon. Melons were juicier, tomatoes redder, eggplants larger. She had many rooms to wander, windows to make curtains for, a stove with six burners. For the few thrusts and grunts Vincenzo required, it was worth it to be in America.

  But on the fourteenth morning of her arrival, Josephine woke up with the room spinning like it did when she had too much wine. Vincenzo was already moving about the kitchen, and she called for him to come, something was wrong. By the time he came, she was throwing up in the chamber pot.

  “I’m sick,” she told him. “I think I’m dying.”

  She thought she would never stop puking. But by the afternoon, weak and exhausted, it stopped. Josephine threw away the eggs she’d collected from her neighbor the day before. Fresh eggs make you talk too much. Old eggs make you sick; she knew that. But when this continued every morning for several days, Vincenzo grinned at her and said, “You’re pregnant. Finally.” With her head in the chamber pot, and the room upside down, she couldn’t tell him what she was thinking: Finally? I hardly know you. For her, this pregnancy had happened too fast.

  JOSEPHINE NEVER UNDERSTOOD why she had been so blessed after her wedding that she did not get pregnant. Because once she came to America, all she did was have babies. It was as if this country was so abundant, so full of plenty, that babies grew in her with the same ease that vegetables filled her garden. First she had Carmine, then Concetta, Giulia, Elisabetta. Vincenzo stru
tted like a rooster, showing off his virility. “All I have to do is look at my wife,” he liked to say, “and poof! She has a baby.” But it wasn’t poof! to Josephine. Each baby was bigger and harder to deliver, and she became more swollen and lethargic with each pregnancy. Her breasts grew big, and leaked milk even when there wasn’t a baby or two latched onto them. Often, she had a baby at each breast and a third one waiting her turn.

  Once she delivered a baby, the only relief was that Vincenzo would leave her alone for a few months. But soon, those months would pass, and one night, he would push aside the babies flopped around the bed, shove Josephine’s legs open, and heave his ever fatter body onto hers. Even worse, either because he had grown so fat, or because he was getting older, it took him longer. Sometimes Josephine counted all the way to thirteen before he grunted and rolled off her. All the while he was pushing into her, babies cried and tugged at her and her breasts leaked out milk.

  When she woke up puking with the fifth baby, Josephine broke into tears. Throwing up into the chamber pot while she nursed Giulia and Elisabetta, who was only three months old, she caught sight of Vincenzo standing in the doorway grinning down at her.

  “Remember this,” she told him. “You will never touch me again.”

  But when that fifth baby, another girl, was stillborn, Josephine was so heartbroken and guilty that she went back on her threat and soon had two more babies, Chiara and Isabella, whom they called Bella. In her mind, whenever Josephine looked at that seventh baby, she didn’t think Bella; she thought basta. Enough.

  UP THE HILL, in a rundown house in the woods, lived a strega, a witch. Josephine had heard stories about the things this woman could do. She could make a man fall in love with a woman. She could bring financial ruin to a family. She could cure sciatica and migraine headaches. She could even, it was rumored, see into the future. She had told Magdalena down the hill that her baby would be born with feet like a fish, and it came to pass. She had seen early death for Giorgio the barber, and hadn’t he been trampled by his own horse before he reached thirty? And his wife pregnant with twins at the time.

  Josephine wondered if the strega could keep her from getting pregnant again. Ever since that fifth baby had been born dead, Josephine believed she was to blame. She had told her husband he could not touch her again, but she knew that it was his right to have her anytime he wanted. Hadn’t her own mother told her that on her wedding day? It was her duty, even if it meant looking like a cow and smelling of spoiled milk and baby spit-up all the time.

  One afternoon, after she lit a candle wax on the altar, she saw Father Leone emerging from the confessional. Josephine rushed to catch up with him.

  “Josephine,” he said, obviously pleased to see her. He pointed to her flat stomach. “No new babies for the Rimaldis this year?”

  Josephine took a step back. It was as if he had read her mind. “Father,” she managed. The smell of incense and melting wax was making her dizzy and she actually swayed slightly.

  “Whoa,” Father Leone said, catching her by the elbows and holding her up.

  Josephine looked into his dark eyes. He had very long lashes that curled up, like a girl’s.

  “I have a question,” she said, her throat too dry to continue.

  “Sit here,” he said. “I’ll get you some water.” Gently, he led her into the front pew and ran to bring her a glass of water.

  When he sat beside her, Josephine foolishly thought his eyes lingered on her breasts, which were filling with milk, which meant it was time for her to go home to feed her babies. What was wrong with her? she wondered as she gulped down the water. Here was a man so holy, the pope wrote him letters of admiration. Having babies made women act crazy; this was a fact. Marianna next door had tried to drown herself in the river after her third baby. Catalina from Sicily ran naked through the streets when she was nine months pregnant. Women knew this. Babies did something to them.

  “I’m so tired,” Josephine said at last.

  “Babies,” the priest said, nodding, “they take your strength.”

  “Yes!” Josephine said. “And Vincenzo . . .” She didn’t know how to say what she wanted to say. Father Leone was sitting so close she could smell his cologne, a spicy scent that filled her mouth. Her nipples were starting to tingle. She had to go. Her breasts were growing hard with milk and soon it would leak out, embarrassing her.

  “Vincenzo insists on you continuing to be his wife,” the priest said, nodding again.

  Was he reprimanding her? Josephine wondered.

  “This is your job, of course. Didn’t Jesus order us to be fruitful and multiply?” His Tuscan accent made it difficult for her to understand him exactly. He pronounced each vowel at the end of his words with a great and confusing flourish.

  Josephine dropped her head. “I suppose so,” she said. Now her breasts were hot and aching.

  Father Leone cupped her chin in his soft hand and lifted her face so that he could look right at her. “How could Vincenzo, or any mortal, keep away from you? You, Josephine, are so beautiful, and so womanly. Look. Look at your breasts even now, flowing with life.”

  Josephine couldn’t really move her head because he held on to her like that, but she glanced down to see a wet stain spreading across the front of her dress. Her cheeks turned red with shame.

  “What’s this?” Father Leone said. “You should never be ashamed of being fruitful and multiplying. Of nourishing God’s children.”

  “But Father,” she said, “look at me. Like a cow.”

  The same hand that had so gently cupped her chin now reached back and gave her a quick, hard slap. Josephine’s hand shot to her face.

  “You are a woman,” Father Leone said sharply. He frowned at her, his dark eyes flashing. “How can I convince you that your body is a gift to your husband and to all of God’s children?”

  Even with her breasts leaking milk, the ache in them got worse. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “But I have to go now.”

  “Why?” he asked her.

  Trying not to show her embarrassment, Josephine looked away from him and said, “You’re a man of God, you don’t need to worry about these mundane things, Father. But when my milk comes in, it’s painful to not release it.”

  “Ah!” Father Leone said. “But you have such a long walk. In pain.”

  “That’s all right, Father.”

  Once again, Father Leone lifted Josephine’s chin. “Do you believe that I am a child of God?” he asked her.

  Confused, thinking perhaps his accent had led her to misunderstand, she said, “Are you a child of God? Why, of course.”

  “Then it would be perfectly appropriate for you to nourish me, wouldn’t it?”

  Josephine searched his eyes but saw nothing there but compassion.

  Father Leone nodded at her. “This will be an offering to God, Josephine,” he said brusquely. “Offer me your milk.”

  Glancing around the empty church, Josephine wondered what to do.

  “God is waiting, Josephine,” he said, impatient.

  Quickly, she unbuttoned her dress. The priest, without ceremony or lust, bent his head and gently put her sore nipple into his mouth. The pain made her groan and she worried he would misunderstand. But Father Leone seemed to take no notice of it, or her. He just greedily sucked her milk, first from one breast, then the other. Sucking hard, using his hand to gently pump it.

  When he lifted his head, his lips were shiny with her milk. Josephine hurriedly buttoned her dress, and Father Leone raised his hand, making a dramatic sign of the cross in the air between them, his deep voice intoning, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” He pressed his thumb against her forehead. “You have given God a gift, and in turn, he blesses you.”

  Josephine swallowed hard. She believed she’d had a holy experience. While she had given her milk to God through Father Leone, something deep within her had stirred. She was damp everywhere, under her arms, between her breasts, even betwe
en her legs.

  “Go home, Josephine,” Father Leone said, “and be a wife to your husband. God orders you to do this.”

  PERHAPS, JOSEPHINE THOUGHT as she made her way to the witch’s house, it was possible to do her duty as a wife and to stop having babies. Ever since that day last week in the church, Josephine had felt closer to God. The priest was indeed a holy man. At church on Sunday, she had gazed up at him as he stood delivering God’s words, and that same something had stirred in her.

  With Bella in a sling swaying in front of her, Josephine walked all the way to the strega’s house through the woods so no one would see her. One thing everyone knew that the witch could do was to stop a pregnancy before the baby got too big. This was a sin, but women regularly came to the witch for that. Josephine didn’t want anyone to think that was what she was doing.

  Barefoot, she walked through the quiet woods. Except for her daughter sleeping against her, Josephine could have been back in the Old Country, walking to the stream. The moss was soft and squishy beneath her feet, and she spotted mushrooms that would be good cooked in red sauce. Josephine couldn’t remember when she had last felt so peaceful. At home, there was always a baby needing to be nursed or fed or changed or washed; there was always a meal to cook, clothes to clean; there was Vincenzo, already wanting her, even though Bella was just ten weeks old. She could tell the way his puffy eyes lingered on her breasts as she nursed Bella and Chiara, then Elisabetta.