Laura Maria Heery and Colin Cooper Chapin were married December 26, 1919, at the Chapel of the Blessed Lady at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Colin noted that it was Boxing Day, which meant they would either have lots of fights or none. They chose the day because the Met was dark through New Year’s, and the boys were on school break; William was eleven, and Charles was twelve. The four of them went on a vacation to Miami Beach, which doubled as a honeymoon. Laura sent a postcard to Minnesota with three words written in her perfect Palmer penmanship: “Never been happier.”
Enza kept a playpen next to her sewing machine in the workroom. There was no separation between work and home life; Enza and Ciro happily blurred the lines. The baby liked to take his bottle and watch the light dance through the shade tree and into the window, throwing petals of shadow on the old tin ceiling. While Antonio napped, Enza was able to help Ciro as he finished the work boots. Enza would buff the leather, and place a wooden rod inside the shoe to stretch the leather under the metal toecap.
Ciro often came from the front of the shop to play with Antonio, throw him in the air, or take him to the yard out back and let him crawl on the grass. They found their son endlessly fascinating. Now that Antonio was almost two years old, he had playmates who came by with their mothers. Enza’s experience taking care of her brothers and sisters held her in good stead as a mother. There were many experienced parents around them. Ida Uncini, whose children were grown, made it a point to stop in and help out. Friends like Linda Nykaza Albanase would drop off a coffee cake and take Antonio for a ride in his pram.
Ciro’s shop on West Lake Street continued to be a magnet for the miners who were looking for a card game after a long shift. Ciro would make sandwiches of mozzarella and tomato; he made the cheese himself, as he had back in his convent days. Enza made fresh bread twice a week, and made sure that Ciro had his friends over on baking day to take advantage of the fresh rolls.
Ciro and Enza took turns making lunch for one another. Ciro would flip the sign in the window, and for a half hour, they’d sit in the back under the shade tree, as their son played on a blanket close by. One warm August day, Enza joined her husband and son in the backyard with Ciro’s favorite meal, eggs poached in fresh tomato sauce over dandelion salad. The mail was tucked under her arm, tied with a string.
“Here, Antonio. Catch.” Ciro threw a ball to his son, who waited for it. Antonio reached up and grabbed the ball from the sky. “Big hands,” Ciro said.
“Like his father.”
“He is very quick.”
“Every father thinks his son is a great athlete.”
“Every father doesn’t have a son like Antonio.”
Enza handed the tray to her husband, who called Antonio to lunch. She gave her son a buttered roll, sat down on the bench, and sorted through the mail. “Bills,” she said.
“Have your lunch, Enza.”
She shuffled through the envelopes. “I will. After I read the letter from Laura.” Enza took the barrette from her hair and opened the letter carefully with it.
August 2, 1921
Dear Enza,
It is with a heavy heart that I write to you on the death of Signor Enrico Caruso. I can hardly think of him without thinking of you. Remember how we made him macaroni? How about the time you pinned his hem and he jumped off the fitting stool and the pins went into his calves and he jumped around like a kid? You used to leave bowls of orange and lemon peels in his dressing room to soak up the fumes from his cigars. Remember when he called you Uno and me Due? “Always together, you two, like one and two,” he said.
What a gift he was to all of us. I will miss him terribly, but will remember him the night of the bond benefit for the Great War, when he stood on the opera stage, his arms outstretched, and took in the love of five thousand fans on their feet, as if he were gathering roses.
My heart breaks for you, as he was one of your own . . . a good man, a great singer, and the ultimate pride of the Italian people.
Sending you, Ciro, and Antonio my love,
Laura
P.S. Signore died in Italy, as was his wish.
Enza held Laura’s letter as she sat on the bench and cried. Ciro took the letter from Enza, read it quickly, and pulled Enza close. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Enrico Caruso’s death was the end of an era that had changed the course of Enza’s life. Her experience at the opera had brought rich friendships into her life and transformed her from a poor immigrant seamstress to a fine American artisan.
As Antonio played on the blanket at her feet, Enza took time to remember the small details of the great singer. She recalled the way he smoked a cigar, blowing the smoke in orderly puffs, like musical notes. She remembered his strong calves and delicate feet, and how she’d tried to lengthen his torso to slim him. She remembered the night he’d put the gold coin into her silver glove, the last night she would ever see him.
For the first time since they moved to Minnesota, Enza longed for New York. Somehow, to be with Laura at the opera house, with the machine operators in the costume shop, the footmen at the entrance, the painters and scenic artists, the musicians and the actors, would be a great comfort. Instead, she was here, with a family that barely knew the details of the life she’d had before she married.
Enza wept, too, for Caruso’s Italy. They’d had long conversations in their native Italian about food—how to grow blood oranges; how to tear fresh basil, never cut it with a knife, to release the most fragrance; and how his mother sang all the verses of “Panis Angelicus” when she boiled pasta, and by the time she got to the last verse, she would lift it from the heat and it would be al dente, perfetta.
The world would miss Caruso’s voice, and of course, Enza would too, but she would not think of his great artistry first and foremost; she would think of him. Caruso had known how to live; he extracted every drop of joy he could render from every hour of his life. He’d studied people, not to judge them, but to revel in their inimitable traits, and in so doing took in the best of them, only to give it right back when he performed.
Enza couldn’t believe that Caruso was dead, because in so many ways he was life itself. He was breath and power, emotion and sound, with a laugh that was so loud, God Himself could hear it in heaven.
Pappina held her new baby in her arms. It was her fourth child, but for the first time, the bonnet was pink. Angela Latini was just two weeks old when Pappina brought her to the shop to introduce her to the Lazzaris.
Ciro and Enza were fussing over the baby when Antonio bounded into the shop.
“Look, you have a new honorary cousin,” Enza said. “This is baby Angela.”
“A girl?” Antonio sniffed. “What are we going to do with a girl?” Antonio was a lanky seven-year-old with long legs and jet black hair. Ciro thought he looked a great deal like his brother Eduardo. No one on Enza’s side of the family was tall, but from the looks of her boy, he was going to be.
“Someday you’ll find out, son,” Ciro said.
Jenny Madich entered the shop with her young daughter Betsy in tow. Betsy went to school with Antonio, and from the first day, they had been sweethearts. Betsy was also tall for her age. Her white leather roller skates were knotted together and thrown over her shoulder. Her black hair, blue eyes, and small upturned nose gave way to a big smile that enchanted everyone she met.
“Wanna skate, Antonio?” Betsy asked.
“Can I, Mama?” Antonio looked up at Enza.
“Yes, but stay on the sidewalk, not in the street.”
Betsy followed Antonio up the stairs.
Jenny Madich was around forty, a tall, slim, blue-eyed, raven-haired Serbian beauty with three daughters, one more beautiful than the next. She was known as the povitica queen on the Mesabi Range. Whenever she made a batch, she dropped one of the pastries off at the shop. Today, she’d brought two. “Did the shoes arrive?” she asked.
“I have them,” Enza said. “They’re beauties.” She went behind the counter and gave the boxes to Jenny, who opened up the patent leather Mary Janes. The pair for her eldest daughter, who was sixteen, had a sleek, small heel. The others were classic with a stack heel. “Just like you ordered. They look like the ad in Everybody’s Magazine. They were right next to the Edna Ferber short story.”
“Are you selling shoes now, Enza?” Pappina asked.
“Special orders only.”
“Enza saved my life with these shoes,” Jenny admitted. “We take the train down to the cities before Easter and get our shoes there. I can never find black patent leather shoes for the girls. And they need them for the competition during Serbian Days.”
“You go all the way to Minneapolis for shoes?” Pappina asked.
“What else can we do? It takes us months to make their costumes, and you don’t want to finish off the look with a cheap shoe.”
“See all you have to look forward to with a little girl?” Enza smiled at Pappina. Enza had been trying for a second child since Antonio turned two, but she hadn’t had any luck. It seemed Pappina had babies one after the other with no problem. And now Enza’s highest dream, a baby girl, had gone on to be realized by her dear friend. Enza reached out, and Pappina handed her the baby. Enza looked down at her and thought she had been given the perfect name; she was truly an angel.
Antonio and Betsy clomped down the stairs, ran through the shop, and went out the door. The bells clanged behind them. “Be careful!” Jenny shouted after them. Then she looked back at Enza. “You know, I’ve been thinking. You could do pretty well selling the dance shoes. If I put an announcement in the Eastern Orthodox newsletter at our church, you’d have Yugos and Romanians and Serbs lined up out the door.”
Enza looked at Ciro. “Honey, what do you think?”
“Whatever you want to do.”
“Jenny, go ahead and put the ad in the bulletin. I can do special orders. And how about this: if I sell twenty-five pairs of shoes, your girls get theirs for free.”
“You have a deal,” Jenny said as she picked up her delivery box and headed out the door. “I’ll grab Betsy on my way home.”
Ciro carried a box from the back of the shop and placed it on the table.
“How’s your back?”
“Soaking in the Epsom gave me some relief,” Ciro said.
“You work too hard.” Enza put her arms around Ciro.
“Do the camphor pack too, Ciro. I put one on Luigi, and it helps,” Pappina offered.
“Let’s face it. There are too many miners, and every single one of them has two feet. No wonder Luigi and I have sore backs.”
Ciro propped open the front door of the shop to let the summer breeze through. Every window was open, and the pattern table had been cleared for a poker game. Ciro’s friends, the two miners Orlich and Kostich, studied their cards. Emilio Uncini folded his hand into the pot on the table, reached for the grappa, and poured himself a slug. “I’m out,” he said.
“Go help your wife with the purse,” Orlich said, studying his cards. His fingernails were rimmed in black from the last shift at Burt-Sellers. Coal dust had settled in the fine lines of his face. With his sharp features and small mouth, he looked like a pen-and-ink drawing.
“I am not going near her,” Emilio said.
Ciro had closed the door to the hallway, but through the transom, the men could hear the laughter and chatter of mothers and daughters, at least fifty of them, lined up on the stairs to go up to the apartment to pick up their patent leather dance shoes. Ida worked as Enza’s secretary, while Enza took the measurements.
Enza had far exceeded her goal of selling twenty-five pairs of shoes; she had sold 76 pairs since the announcement was placed in the Eastern Orthodox church bulletin.
A stout woman in a straw hat entered the shop with her daughter. Ciro looked up from his cards.
“I’m looking for the shoemaker’s wife,” the lady said. “You don’t look like Mrs. Lazzari.”
Ciro pointed through the door and up the stairs in the direction of the noise. The lady left with her daughter, and when she was out of earshot, Ciro said, “And you, ma’am, do not look like a dancer.”