“Maybe you should.”
“I wasn’t ready for romance for the longest time. Five years. More. And then, one night, a storm came through and blew the windows out of my house. And I could breathe again. The despair lifted. The grief wasn’t gone entirely, but it felt different. I could put it in its place. Manage it. It wasn’t my life anymore, it was just a part of it. Sadness wasn’t the only thing I felt. I could feel other things too.”
“I’m happy for you.”
Mamie looked off. “It’s a start.”
“You give me hope,” Minna admitted.
“Do you think you’ll ever leave this house?”
“Every morning I think, this is the day, and I get up, I’ve got gumption. So, I tend the garden, do the wash, make the gravy, do all those things someone does when they take care of a home. And soon it’s late afternoon, and by then I’m tired and I’ve lost the courage to try. And I tell myself, tomorrow will be the day.”
Mamie understood the inertia. It had been the same for her—except she had a goal: she vowed that she would get Augie raised, and afterwards would live again. “But we don’t know about tomorrow, Minna. With all the choices we make, we don’t really make the important ones, those are made for us. Think about the shore, will you?”
“I will.”
Mamie gave Minna a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving.
Minna heard the front door close. She thought about baking a pie, but decided she’d put it off until the next day. She took off her apron and walked to the living room. She peered out the curtains. She stood at the front door, opened it, and went out on to the porch. She felt the warm air envelop her like a cashmere shawl.
Minna went down the front walk on her way to the street but stopped short of the sidewalk. The last inlay of blue slate on the walkway was the boundary that separated Minna from the rest of the world. She could stand on that stone and greet a neighbor, collect the mail, or welcome a guest inside. But this morning, instead of remaining behind the boxwood hedge that hemmed the small patches of green grass, she closed her eyes and stepped out onto the sidewalk for the first time in seven years. She placed one foot on the cement square, and then the other. Her mind flashed with an image of mud, her sandaled foot pulled into muck. She shook her head to rid herself of the picture. Instead of living inside the fear, she opened her eyes and looked down at her feet. She confirmed she was safe, but stood there, unsure, her hands formed into tight fists, as she fought her deepest anxiety.
Minna stood on that spot for as long as she could bear it, a matter of seconds. She inhaled, exhaled, and tried to control the waves of panic. She heard a cacophony of sound, the voices of every person who had ever spoken to her since the day she was born, living or dead, in a loud chorus. Her brain filled with the goo of their conversation, and she was afraid as they talked over one another, loudly admonishing her to turn back, go back, get inside. She shook her head, again certain their voices were imagined, not real, and therefore didn’t matter.
Minna had taken the first step out of her prison. Instead of collapsing, she stood tall. Tomorrow she vowed she would take another. And the day after that, yet another until she reached Mary Farino’s, then Constance Stampone’s, then the post office, then the coffee shop, until she reached her goal. Minna had a mission, and more important than making the effort, she believed she could achieve it. Someday soon she would walk to the top of Garibaldi Avenue into Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church where she would sit in a pew surrounded by the saints and inhale the scent of the beeswax candles and incense and kneeling at long last at the altar of the Blessed Mother, she would pray and be healed. As Minna walked back into her house, she envisioned herself sitting in the pew and she could see it clearly. Tomorrow she would take another step forward.
*
Calla had been directed by Ed Shaughnessy’s office to the Fountain of the Sea Horses, where after months of repairs, he was scheduled to turn on the waterworks.
Calla wore the prettiest sundress she owned that day, a hand-me-down from her sister Portia. It was an ice-blue cotton number, with a full skirt and bows tied at the shoulders. She wore flat sandals and brushed her hair until it was as shiny as her mother’s gold bangle bracelet from Sorrento, which dangled from her wrist. She had learned the importance of choosing the right costume when putting on a show.
“Mr. Shaughnessy!” Calla waved from the footpath behind the fountain. “It’s me, Calla Borelli, from the theater.”
Ed wouldn’t have connected the woman in paint-splattered coveralls at Borelli’s theater to the one in the dress. This fetching girl was a dish.
“You got the old Bernini going.” Calla splashed her hand in the cool water.
“What’s Philly without the fountain?”
“Dry,” Calla joked. “My dad always wanted to put a small park and fountain next to the theater. I guess that will stay a dream for now anyway. Frank just told me all about his plan for the theater. What do you think?”
“I hate to see history die in a neighborhood.”
“Ed, how relevant is that old barn to the audiences of today?”
“I don’t know. That’s not for me to decide. You’re a theatrical person, I work for the city.”
“It’s too expensive to renovate, don’t you think?” Calla was coy.
“It can be done. If you want to renovate that building, you could do it. It would be expensive. Getting it up to code would mean gut work from the inside out.”
“That’s what Frank says.”
“He knows what he’s doing.”
“Thank goodness. I don’t know what I’d do without him. He doesn’t like to burden me with the big decisions.”
“That’s what he told me.”
“I need my mind clear for the creative aspects of my job.”
“Makes sense.”
“What do you think about his plans for the lot?”
Ed shrugged. “He thinks there’s a market for apartments on Broad.”
Calla swallowed hard. “Do you?”
“South Philly needs housing. It’s lucrative. Frank knows how to take an opportunity and make something out of it.” Ed turned on the water that filled the dishes in the fountain. The water rippled in the sun, sparkling like sapphires. “But, I’d hate to see a building of the Belle Epoque era brought down for an ordinary apartment complex. I like the historical stuff,” Ed admitted.
“There’s no way to save the building and put up apartments?” Calla asked.
“I don’t see how. Frank says it can’t be done.”
Calla’s worst fears were confirmed. She felt faint. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Shaughnessy.”