Having found the building that housed the Central Telephone Exchange, she waited on one of the many benches while they routed her long-distance call, trying to think of how she would say it, tell John.
The morning of his return, John rushed to meet her at the mortuary. There was a body to be assigned its fate a decision to be made. In a taper-lit anteroom—its odor of intrusive formaldehyde a dour reminder of where they were and why, they faced each other as though they had never met. Having convinced herself all was her fault Jane stood before him, helpless. Reaching out John pulled her into his arms. They held each other arresting time, until she whispered, “They say we must decide.”
“No coffin! I won’t have my son put in a box! It’s cold and dark—it frightens him—he told me … he …” and John broke—sobs draining his body he leaned against the doorframe of the undertaker’s—abject misery incarnate. To bury one’s child in foreign soil to which one might never return—was too wrenching a leave-taking even in death. Jane had learned this long ago from when Henrietta had left her Gloria behind, and so cremation, that procedure so often condemned by true believers, became their only solution.
For his Baptism of Fire Jane dressed him in the new suit he would have worn on the first day of school. On his return Michael resided in a delicately hammered tin urn in which he would travel the world. For the rest of her life Jane kept it with her, as duty and love combined.
Though he must have been affected if only by the absence, young John behaved as if nothing had changed. Billy, confused, searched for his brother—until he came home in his urn—after that Billy knowing that Michael was no longer lost went about being a little boy who had learned what death could do. John hid his sorrow in his work, the panacea of his life.
Where one might expect a bereaved mother to become timid, overprotective of those of her children remaining—Jane did not. As though challenging God, daring him to continue his destruction of those she loved, Jane fought him, vowed never again would she give him another chance to make it up to her. To be free was no longer simply a physical necessity—she now demanded of life an unconditional pardon of the soul. As though she had voiced Smite me if you can—I dare you, Jane challenged God’s very existence.
Expected next in Denmark, John first moved his family to the home of his parents—outside of Turin. John’s father, a proud man, accorded dominion over a prolific family—though rarely seen except at mealtimes, he ruled with an assured nonchalance often present in Italian men who believe there is no reason to exert their limitless authority until such time something of real import occurs to warrant it. His wife also a Piemontese and therefore just as respectful of class and those sought-after advantages connected with it—ran the villa, which was never referred to as a “house,” the servants and anyone else within her radius of patrician interest. Celestina’s pretty sister, Gina, having married well, now a fussing mother of four, divided her time between overseeing peasant nursemaids and cutting flowers for the decorating of side tables. Expending energy on anything else being far too exhausting she conserved it, this contributed to her being bored—and being boring.
In this aura of strict gentility, amidst planned flower beds, tended gravel paths that fanned out from a villa that was just weatherworn enough to make it ancestrally attractive, Jane felt like an interloper discovered in the wrong garden.
As always she blamed herself, assuming the negative that it must be she—who having little talent for being a guest made the situation uncomfortable for herself not they for her. She was aware she was being treated with as much kindness as a grieving mother could expect, yet as her grief was anger not gentle tears—how could they understand her? She was such a private person that even well-intentioned commiseration being Italian and therefore overly effusive, disturbed.
As families will, Jane was accepted as the wife of the son who though he had chosen to turn his back on the country of his birth, had made them proud by his achievements. She had added to that assessment by having produced sons. To conform, cause no rift within time-honored custom, she dressed as expected, wore funereal black. Being Jane, whose sense of fashion was acute, this was no great acquiescence on her part, black was an elegant color and it suited her.
Head to toe in mourning—every inch the acceptable Italian matron—her bobbed hair that shocked, her only individuality, Jane moved about her husband’s boyhood home as if she belonged.
With language no obstacle, the boys made friends, enjoyed the freedom of a small town where they were looked upon as foreigners, a rich man’s sons and therefore special.
Proud of his new position as the eldest son, young John blossomed—less withdrawn, he became approachable. It was during this time of personal transition that the exposure to papist Catholicism established its lasting beachhead on his character. The Bible became his favorite reading matter, daily prayer and regular churchgoing a part of who he would become. Billy too liked the smell of incense, the tinkle of bells that came between solemn parts but really he looked forward to Sunday churchgoing because afterwards everyone got to eat cake.
John came home for Christmas, just in time to explain to a very disappointed Billy—that no, Santa Claus had not forgotten him, had only handed on his duties to a funny-looking old crone who also could fly over rooftops—but because she used a broom that was much slower than a whole bunch of reindeer—he would have to wait for presents until she arrived on the Day of the Three Kings, which young John immediately declared was Epiphany and proceeded to give a dissertation on its religious origin. Then and there Billy decided that although Italy was okay, for a real Hanukah-Christmas, America was much much better. He did question his new grandmother why she hadn’t put out the menorah—but when she scolded him saying that it was “a Jew thing” and that these terrible people had killed the Son of God—nailed him to a cross, left him to die a slow and terrible death of unspeakable agony, frightened, Billy ran from the room and never mentioned anything connected with Hannah ever again. It was his way of protecting her, from what Billy wasn’t sure—only that he felt he had to.