of forced sexual attention—but society didn’t always see it that way.
She herself had known several dancers who, having found themselves unexpectedly knocked up, had taken the back-alley way out to keep their jobs. It always hurt her to think of a mother being forced into such a decision, but she was also aware that it would be entirely too easy to moralize when she would never again find herself in such a situation.
“And you think someone might have found out and tipped off the USO,” Vi said.
“That’s my theory, yes. You know what the USO is like.”
“I do. But I’m curious: Why blame Luciana?”
Marcie crossed her arms and scowled. “Because there’s something shady about her. First palling around with Mr. Miller, then the captain aboard ship. Breaking rules whenever it suits her. Knowing things she shouldn’t.”
“Like your real name is Marcella Maggio?” Vi asked, finally getting the opening she wanted.
Marcie cocked one dark eyebrow. “Does it matter?”
“It does if I can’t trust you to be straight with me.” Vi took a deep breath. “My point is, Luciana’s shadiness aside, I’m not convinced she’s the one who ratted Janet out.”
“Then who did?”
“Have you considered the fact that you’re the daughter of an uptight, traditional, Catholic father—your words—and how he might feel if he found out that his little girl was traveling with a woman who’d had an abortion? Especially when the two of you would be surrounded by young sex-starved soldiers while on tour. Men don’t become angels just by adding a uniform.”
Marcie’s chin came up. “Who are you, my mother? And even if my father had found out about Janet, he wouldn’t have interfered.”
“Are you sure? Answer me this, then: Did Janet disappear before or after Sue assigned travel buddies?”
“Before. No, wait—after.” Marcie’s eyes widened. “You really think my father had something to do with it?”
“You tell me.”
“But if my father knows . . .” Marcie glanced at the door and scowled. “I bet it’s still Luciana’s fault, the buttana. I bet she told him.”
“Why?” If anything, Marcie should have deduced Vi was the spy, having taken Janet’s place. “She just told us she doesn’t like the Mafia.”
“She could be lying. She quoted a Sicilian proverb, after all.”
Vi frowned, confused. “Wait, what’s wrong with that?”
“Pfft. Americans don’t know anything. Sicilians are considered pigs by our ‘countrymen,’” she said bitterly. “Even in America, where all men are supposedly equal, we get no respect from other Italians. It’s been that way ever since the Italian peninsula was united—by force, mind you—and Sicily, along with Naples, was reduced to nothing by the fascists of the North.” Marcie squared her shoulders. “But we are a proud people. We still remember that less than a century ago, Sicily was the capital of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Rich. Powerful. The envy of Europe.”
“I see,” Vi said, and she did. After Marcie’s impassioned rant and Luciana’s veiled warning on board the ship, it was becoming clear there was more than a little bad blood between the different regions of Italy. It also gave Luciana’s caution to “show respect for the place you are in” added weight. “You still haven’t answered my question about your name.”
Marcie’s chin rose a notch. “Can’t I have a stage name like everyone else?”
“What if something happens to you and the army needs to contact someone? Tell me you at least gave them your real address.”
Some of the steel left Marcie’s spine. “I didn’t think about that.” Then she straightened, and her eyes flashed. “It doesn’t matter. My parents don’t care about me, anyway.”
Vi felt her headache returning. “Marcie, I don’t care if you have a stage name. I don’t care if you are Sicilian-not-Italian, or that your father might be Mafia. But I would like to know what name to give to the authorities if you are ever injured. Especially since I’m your travel buddy and responsible for your whereabouts.”
Marcie regarded her solemnly for a long moment. “Do you promise not to tell anyone unless you absolutely have to?”
“Cross my heart, hope to die,” Vi said wearily, making the sign of an X over her chest.
“Don’t say that!” Marcie exclaimed, rapidly crossing herself. “May we both live long and happy lives.”
Vi sighed mentally at the girl’s mercurial mood shifts. “Of course.”
Marcie leaned close and whispered dramatically, as if divulging state secrets, “My real name is Angelina Marcella Maggio. My parents are Antonio Maggio and Beatrice Vecchione Maggio, of Lower Manhattan. Got that?”
The rush of relief at finally having that secret