I was dismayed. This would delay my plans to set us up independently. But I understood her reason—and I had no choice. Contritely I said, “I’ll start next week.”
This calmed Angela. After taking off her apron and changing from dirty boots to clean ones, she patted my head and Charlotte’s with a forceful hand. She told Gina something in Italian. Then she excused herself, explaining that she was due at a neighbor’s to make decorations for an upcoming religious festival.
I handed Gina three dollars for the previous two weeks, which I’d borrowed from Clementina and Margaret, and reiterated my promise to pay two dollars starting next week—by which time I’ll have been paid for my own work.
Gina patted my leg and tucked the bills into her skirt pocket. “It is good Charlotte stays here. I need money.” Her body leaned closer, bringing me the scent of lavender soap. “Angela says I don’t. But I have my plan. I take Lucia to Italy, after I save.” She kissed Lucia on the scalp, then looked across the room, her plump face absent with homesickness.
Victor entered the kitchen from the yard and washed his hands. He was clean-shaven, with glossy hair and well-proportioned features. His son—Gina’s purported husband—must have been handsome. Victor dried his hands on a towel, then reached to shake my hand. His hand was warm and reassuring, but his words were not.
“Where’s your husband?” he asked. “How long will this baby stay? How do you know our Gina?”
I stuttered as I tried to frame replies, and Gina jumped in to rescue me. “We met at Fessler’s Market. Her husband works in Pittsburgh.” She turned to me, her look matter-of-fact. “And you go to him soon, Lilli. With Charlotte.”
“That’s correct.” I nodded. “A few months longer, no more than that.” I gulped back all the incriminating words I might have offered. A church bell tolled and saved me from further questions.
“Three o’clock! I got a rehearsal at Angelo’s.” Victor strode through an archway into the next room and grabbed what I took to be a case for a horn. The front door banged after him.
Gina placed Lucia in a bassinet, then led me and Charlotte outside, where she checked the bread and fed the fire. Charlotte grabbed my pointer finger and sucked it. I stroked her red hair, so much like her father’s.
For him, she is not a whisper of a thought.
I prayed again for a letter from Peter.
When a church bell struck five, I placed Charlotte not in the cradle but in Gina’s arms, hoping to soften my departure. I covered my head with a shawl, stepped into the afternoon’s oblique sun, and walked to the Burnhams’. I took back ways through meadows and woods, my sadness soothed by air that was redolent with life expanding. My soul exulted at this good world, where everything is made purposeful by God’s animating force.
Fifth Month 29
Clementina’s temper has burst forth like a flame all day. She began to assert it early this morning, when I was making breakfast. Henry called from his crib; since Margaret was emptying a bucket of kitchen waste in the back, I had to leave my work to get him. When I returned, with him mouthing my apron, the toast was burned. So I tried again, with Henry in one arm (which proved no easy way to slice bread). I placed the toast rack before the hearth, then sat to nurse. But I didn’t turn the rack soon enough, and once more the bread turned black. Clementina came in, yelling.
“What’s that wretched smell? Where’s my breakfast?” She gave but a second’s glance to her son. Before I could answer, Margaret entered and instantly saw that I was serving too many needs at once.
“I’ll look for something in the attic for Henry to lie in,” she said. I met her words with a grateful look.
“You have five more minutes to prepare our meal,” said Clementina. “My husband has to get downtown.” She grabbed a strawberry from the table and devoured it. Also on the table sat a cup of tea and a small pile of shelled peanuts.
“Are these yours?” she asked, pointing, for both those items are forbidden to me. They were indeed mine, but I feared the increase of her rage too much to answer. My stomach clenched as she spilled my tea into a bucket. “I’m taking note of this violation of your terms.” With a slight blush, she swept the peanuts into a cupped hand and tossed them into her mouth. Raising up her nose and balling her fists in indignance, she marched out.
Margaret returned carrying a padded wicker basket, perfect for Henry’s size, and a wheeled frame for it to rest on. She said this might have been the very basket Clementina had lain in, an observation that failed to make me sentimental. I laid a dishtowel on its musty padding and placed Henry down. Then we raced to prepare omelets and toast and broiled ham while the Burnhams engaged in a heated discussion in the dining room.
“A fellow in Harper’s Magazine says a girl’s education should fit her for a woman’s life,” Clementina said.
“Sounds sensible,” replied Albert.
“A woman’s life? He means doing all the filthy, boring, never-ending labors of the home—while constantly pretending to be contented and sweet. Oh, and doing these things while amusing others with modestly informed conversation and musical performances of fitting mediocrity.”
“But my dear, you are sweet. Others do your filthy labor. And your conversation is informed—though you refuse to entertain with music. And you’re free to learn whatever you please, regardless of what this writer claims. Everyone’s got an opinion about the proper education of girls. Find one that suits you better!”
“Albert!” Her cry was dismal.
“All right, you tell me what’s the matter.”
“That man’s view is typical, and you know it. But a woman doesn’t exist merely to make life pleasant and convenient for others. Has she no right to a livable existence herself? To say a girl’s education must prepare her to be a wife and mother only—and to say, as he does, that this education should take place entirely in the home—why, it’s a bit like saying a colored man’s education ought to occur only in fields and to make him fit only for planting and picking cotton. Don’t you see? It’s a virtual prison women are kept in—a cage decorated with words like moral and pure!”
“Surely you can’t think your life a prison,” protested Albert. “It may be a cage, but it’s a gilded one. Dearest, why are you so unhappy?”
“Aaaarh!” yelled Clementina.
A chair scraped the floor. Footsteps pattered up the stairs. A door slammed shut and a bed creaked, revealing her new location.
By that point we’d finished assembling their meal. Margaret’s face was pallid. She whispered, “Should I serve Mr. Burnham?”
I nodded. “Fill a plate for her, too,” I whispered, “and bring it upstairs. She was awfully hungry.”