An Italian Wife by Ann Hood
Salute
IN AMERICA, ANYTHING WAS POSSIBLE. THIS WAS WHAT Josephine’s husband told her before he left their village to catch the ship in Naples. She didn’t know him, this husband of hers. Their marriage had been arranged by their parents long ago, before Josephine had breasts or menstruated for the first time. He was considered a step up for her family: his parents owned land in the next village, and pigs, and even a cow. He had been to Rome, where for two years he worked as a guard at the king’s palace. “Vincenzo Rimaldi,” Josephine’s mother had told her from the very day the betrothal was set, when Josephine was only eight years old. “He will give you a good life. You will have fresh milk every day. And pork all year long. And most important, you will have land. Land is better than gold, Josephine.”
Josephine had nodded, but really she would rather have gold than land or pigs. She liked pretty things, shiny things, things that glittered. She collected rocks with veins of fool’s gold, or pieces of flint that sparkled in the sun. Once she found something bright-blue and unidentifiable and she kept it in her apron pocket, believing it must be valuable.
Because her husband-to-be was eleven years older than Josephine, she didn’t meet him until the day of her wedding. He was away in Rome; he was taking care of all that land.
A week before her fifteenth birthday, her mother woke her and explained that her wedding would be today. The husband-to-be had managed to book a spot in steerage on a ship to America and he would not be back for some time. The families had decided it was better for the wedding to happen right away, before he left. If God was smiling on them so much as to get him a ticket on that boat, then perhaps he would send them a child right away too.
“I knew this match was a fortunate one,” Josephine’s mother said, making a quick sign of the cross and kissing the silver crucifix that dangled from the black rosary beads she wore around her neck. “You are so lucky, Josephine,” her mother told her, pinching Josephine’s cheeks. “America! Imagine it!”
“I can’t, Mama. I don’t even know for certain where it is.” Josephine was trying not to cry. What she did know about America was that it was far away, across a vast, turbulent ocean. She would be happy to marry any boy in her own village, someone without a cow, someone staying put.
“Who cares where it is?” her mother said dismissively. “Everyone there is rich. Money spills out of their pockets. They live in big houses and have many cows and pigs. You’re blessed, Josephine,” she said, making another sign of the cross. “Now, get up so I can get you ready.”
Josephine had gone to sleep the night before, happily watching the moon rise outside her window. It was her favorite moon, a crescent, with a star shining bright beside it. Now her life was about to change completely. Nothing would be the same after today.
Her mother unfolded a white lace dress and held it up for Josephine to see. “This is the dress my mother made for me when I got married. Now you will wear it.”
Josephine fingered the fine lace.
“You know how the dogs are when they’re in heat?” her mother asked, busying herself by laying out undergarments and stockings, taking a cameo from its satin box.
She didn’t look at Josephine, who was frowning at her mother. Why would they talk about something like dogs on the morning before she got married? Josephine’s stomach churned uncomfortably.
“You know how the boy dog climbs up on the female dog and moves on her?”
“Yes,” Josephine said hesitantly.
“All of God’s things do that, Josephine. That’s how we reproduce.”
“Reproduce?” Josephine repeated.
Her mother sighed. She glanced at Josephine ever so briefly. “That’s what you will have to do tonight with Vincenzo.”
“What?” Josephine said.
This was too much. In a few minutes her whole life had been turned upside down. She went to sleep distantly betrothed, and woke to learn she would get married today, that her husband would leave her in three days’ time and go to America, where he would eventually send for her. And now this thing with the dogs. She could picture it, their own long-dead dog Jacko, mounting any female dog that passed—bigger ones, smaller ones, it didn’t mater; Jacko was indiscriminate—and jerking around inside them, sputtering and drooling.
“You will do it tonight and you will do it anytime Vincenzo wants you to. This is what a wife does for a husband.”
“But Mama—”
“There’s no more to say about it. Now, get dressed. His family is already on their way.”
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