her family, angry that she hadn’t braved the ocean and brought Antonio to the mountain as she had promised Ciro, and brokenhearted at the loss of her mother.
Life was changing again, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The loss of one’s mother was devastating, and echoed in every chamber of her heart.
The phone rang. Enza leaped for it.
“Mama?”
“Antonio!” The only balm for Enza in this moment of loss was her son’s voice, and it had been sent to her.
“What’s wrong, Mama?”
“Your Nonna Ravanelli died, honey.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She loved you, Antonio.”
Antonio swallowed. He had never met his grandmother and now he never would. He had been halfway around the world, and yet he had never been to the mountain.
“I’m in New York, Mama. I’m home. Stateside. Safe as can be.”
Waves of relief rushed over Enza. Every nerve within her released, and she had to sit down. “When will I see you?”
“Mama, I’ve never been to New York. Aunt Laura and Angela want to show me the town.”
“Good, good, make sure they take you to the opera.”
“I will. Mama, what can I bring you?”
“Just you.”
“That’s easy, Mama.”
“Let me know when you’ve made your plans. Should I call Betsy?”
“Oh, Mama, I didn’t write to tell you. She fell in love with a doctor in Minneapolis and married him.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“No, no, it’s all right, Mama. I’m fine with it. I just want to come home and see my favorite girl.”
Enza wept for joy. This terrible day had just become wonderful, with one phone call from her soldier son.
Enza went into the kitchen, cleared the table, and began to make fresh pasta. She needed to do something, before getting on the phone and calling everyone from Ida and Emilio Uncini to Veda Ponikvar to Monsignor Schiffer. Everything felt wonderful in her hands, the silky flour, the eggs—the well was deep as she kneaded the dough. She delighted in the textures as she never had before.
She played the radio as she worked, leaving fingerprints of flour on the dial when she raised the volume. She was thrilled when a recording of “Mattinata” sung by Enrico Caruso poured out of the cloth speakers. It was a sign—everything good was a sign; the war was over, Antonio was coming home, he was alive, he had made it through, he’d done the right thing and it had paid off, for him, his character, and the country of his birth. Her mother had kept Antonio safe for her. She was sure of it now. There were no coincidences.
If only Ciro had been here to share this day with her. He knew exactly how to manage sadness, and he knew how to embrace joy. If only he were here.
Enza set about freshening up the house. She opened the skylights and let in the spring breezes as she changed the sheets, scrubbed the floors, put out plants and photographs, and made the entire place shine. She flipped the sign on the shop door every day at lunch and locked up. The sign read, “Back in one hour,” and everyone in Chisholm knew exactly where she was; Enza went up and down West Lake Street buying all the ingredients to prepare Antonio’s favorite foods and returning home to prepare them. She baked anisette cookies, rolled fresh skeins of linguini, baked bread, and made his favorite chicken pastina soup. She was sure he would be thin, and as anxious as she was for him to come home, she was happy that Laura and Angela were showing him New York, which gave her an extra week to prepare for his homecoming.
“Mama!” Antonio took his mother in his arms, after the four longest years of her life. She kissed her son’s face over and over again, unable to believe her good fortune.
“Mama, I got married,” Antonio said.
“What?” Enza put her hand over her mouth. She imagined a war bride, an Asian beauty, a girl rescued from an island, a place that Antonio found enchanting and therefore wanted to possess forever in a romantic way. “Where did you get married?”
“In New York.”
“Well, where is she?” Enza’s happiness turned to trepidation.
“She’s downstairs.”
“Well, I’d love to meet her.” Enza’s heart raced. She had not counted on this. What if she wasn’t a wonderful girl? What if he’d married his version of Vito Blazek? What if, in the thrill of having made it through the war, he simply snap-judged the biggest decision of a person’s life? She couldn’t imagine it. And yet as she turned to