to having everything done for them, as if they came from homes with servants.
Enza lifted the tin washtub, filled with wet laundry she had scrubbed and rinsed by hand. She pushed the screen door open and stepped out onto the patch of grass behind the tenement, where she had strung a clothesline across the courtyard. Every bit of space behind the building had been negotiated and bartered, including the open air. Lines of rope choked the sky like strings on a harp.
Enza lifted the corners of her apron, tucking them beneath the sash. She filled the pocket with clothespins. She lifted a bleached white diaper out of the bin, snapped it, and clipped it to the clothesline. She yanked the pulley and hung the next, and the next. Enza’s laundry was always the most pristine in the courtyard. She used lye soap, and finished the job with a soak in hot water and bleach.
Enza hung the underpants, pantalettes, and skirts of the Buffa women one by one. When she had first arrived, she would drop lavender oil into the rinse as she had when she washed the family’s clothes in Schilpario, but after a few months, she stopped. Her extra efforts were neither appreciated nor acknowledged. She only heard complaints: there was a wrinkle in a hem, or the laundry wasn’t finished fast enough. Four babies had been born in six years on Adams Street. Enza could barely keep up with the workload.
Anna Buffa played a duet from Rigoletto at full volume as Enza heated chicken stock on the stove. She chopped a carrot into slim discs and dropped them into the broth. Enza carefully ladled a cup of pastina into the pot, then another. The tiny dots of pasta, as small as rice, would make a hearty soup. Giacomina had taught Enza that all ingredients in soup must be chopped and diced similarly to create a smooth texture in order to feel uniform in the mouth, no one ingredient overpowering another.
Enza prepared a tray for Anna’s meal. She poured a glass of wine from a homemade bottle labeled “Isabelle Bell,” and set out several slices of bread, some softened butter, and the soup. She placed a cloth napkin on the tray and took it into the living room.
Anna Buffa was draped on an easy chair covered in brown chenille, one leg slung over the ottoman, the other foot on the floor. Her eyes were closed; her pale blue dress was hiked to the knees, and her lace collar was askew. Enza felt a moment of pity. Anna’s once-lovely face was now etched with lines of worry, its texture slack from age, and her once-black hair was streaked with white. Anna still managed to put on lipstick each morning, but by nightfall all that was left was a pale stain of tangerine, which made her look more haggard still.
“Your dinner, Signora.” Enza placed it carefully on the ottoman.
“Sit with me, Enza.”
“I have so much to do.” Enza forced a smile.
“I know. But sit with me.”
Enza sat down on the edge of the sofa.
“How is the factory?”
“Fine.”
“I should write to your mother,” Anna said.
Enza wondered what had brought on this civil tone and mood. She looked over at the whiskey glass and realized that Anna had already finished it. This would explain her sudden warmth.
“You should eat your soup,” Enza told her, placing a pillow behind the small of Anna’s back. This was the only pampering Anna had ever received, and she relished it.
Anna placed the napkin on her lap and slowly sipped the soup. “Delicious,” she said to Enza. Evidently, Anna's mood had mellowed in the glow of the amber booze.
“Thank you.”
Enza looked down at Anna’s swollen ankles. “You should soak your feet tonight, Signora.”
“The ankles are bad again.” Anna sighed.
“It’s the whiskey,” Enza said.
“I know. Wine is good for me, but whiskey is not.”
“Hard liquor has no place to go in the body.”
“How do you know this?” Anna’s dark eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“My mother always said that if you drink wine made from the grapes of your own vines, it can never hurt you. But we don’t have room on Adams Street for a trellis.” Enza smiled.
“Evangeline Palermo grows her own grapes and makes wine in Hazelet. She'll live to be a hundred. Watch,” Anna said bitterly. “Play me a record.”
Enza placed Enrico Caruso singing Tosca on the turntable.
“Don’t scratch it,” Anna barked.
Enza placed the needle gently on the outer groove, then lowered the volume dial. “Signora, tell me why