It was almost dark. It had been raining all day. I was sitting with Thomasina, leaning up against the tufted white vinyl headboard of my bed. My bed was closest to the single window in the little upstairs bedroom I shared with my sister in my ma's house. There were three bedrooms upstairs. Ma had one; Nonnie had one and my sister and me had one. I wished the walls were light pink, the exact color of strawberry ice cream. The walls were white. I hate fucking white walls.
I was feeling really down. Good that Carol went somewhere, probably shopping with her friends, with, as always, a trip to Cinti's Deli for sausage and pepper sandwiches, potato salad and donuts, afterwards. I shifted, put the Photoplay magazine down. Tony Curtis was jealous because he thought Kirk Douglas was making a pass at Janet Leigh during the filming of "The Vikings". Who the hell wanted to read about how some actress or actor accused their husband or wife of cheating? Who cared if an actor was a rapist, a damned womanizing bastard?
I frowned, and what the fuck had Emilio meant when he asked me to marry him? He'd seemed serious. It was tempting in a wild sort of way. Ha, it would be an arranged marriage! And, Ma would practically have a stroke at even the thought of me marrying wild man Emilio Leone. I'd been having the shakes, cold, then, hot, I was a disaster! Was I sick, physically? Part of me, really did want to marry Emilio. He seemed to me like a brilliantly dark angel, ~ exciting, tempting, yet, also somehow, sweet and endearing. But, a big part of me wanted someday to fulfill my dream of becoming a commercial artist. I wanted so badly to go to the Cleveland Institute Of Art, which was world famous.
It was a fabulous school that I knew I could never afford. I was just taking beautician courses at the Patti Jeanette School Of Beauty, so I could do something creative; I knew it would never, ever be good enough. Who wants to set little old lady's thin hair for the rest of their life? With an art degree from the Cleveland Institute I could go anywhere. It would be so great!
I threw the stuffed toy autograph hound that was on my pillow across the room. That startled Thomasina. I petted her to reassure her and scratched her around her jaw. She put her dainty chin up and purred. Yeah, really, I was angry and frustrated that the image of Mike Leone wouldn't get out of my brain. I picked up my sketchbook, my colored pencils. But, I put them down too. I didn't feel like drawing. What the hell? Why was I such a miserable emotional mess? I knew!...
I went downstairs. Our only phone was in the kitchen. Nonnie was sitting in one of the straight-backed ghairs at the kitchen table, Enrico lying across the back of her shoulders. She was knitting, working on a black wool blanket for the back of Paulie and Helen's new couch. She was drinking her homemade limoncello, the half empty corked bottle sat next to a small goblet of it. I loved her limoncello. Zanne was lying at Nonnie's feet. He sat up, licked Nonnie's hand. His head was higher than the table, like a blackish wolf. He was panting a bit. It was a warm day. His perfect long white fangs showed on either side of his big pink tongue.
But, he just looked at me, placidly, with his intelligent chestnut brown eyes. He was a good dog. Zanne seldom threatened anybody. He didn't need to. Actually, he got along with practically everybody, people and animals, with few exceptions. He liked Enrico and Thomasina. He was very protective, though. He seemed to instinctively know that he was born to defend the more vulnerable than him, the helpless.
"Have a limoncello, " Nonnie said. I got a goblet from the cupboard. "Why don't you call him?,", in Italian, of course.
I swallowed a big gulp of the delicious liquor. "What? Call who?" I was always annoyed when Nonnie read my mind. "Do not play coy," she said. "You know, the very handsome light haired one with the beautiful blue eyes. You have been interested in him for years. He is smart and he is strong, a clever survivor."
"And, you like that."
"Yes, very much. Many of the young men of the region where I was born have very wild and violent youths. Yes, that's usual. and nothing to be upset about, but then maybe they settle down, become very good providers, husbands and fathers. They sometimes are even kind and make wonderful lovers."
"Nonnie!" I tried to sound shocked, and a saw a tiny smile tugging around Nonnie's lips.
"A girl is never, never, never, ever supposed to call a boy," I said. "It just isn't done!" Nonnie looked down at her knitting. "Since when do young girls not call young men on the phone?"
"Since practically forever!"
"What a stupid custom! How is a young man supposed to know that a young girl is interested in him, in this country where parents do not make a practice of making fine matches for their beloved children?"
"He's, uh, I don't know! I don't know!!"
"Few young men can read minds."
"Like you can!"
She shook her head. "Young girls are so easily upset, so delicately balanced. I am glad I no longer suffer. from such things. Now, I am calm."
"And, you never think of men?" I frowned. "I don't believe that, not even for a minute."
She smiled serenely, without looking up. "You are very right. I am not dead yet, dried up, but not dead. Look how well this blanket is coming! Hmmm?" She held it up for me to see. Then, she said, "You should bring this handsome, strong and smart young man here. I would like very much to meet him."
"I don't know him well enough to bring him home," I said. I felt like shouting it to Nonnie, but I would never ever even think about shouting at Nonnie. She shrugged, her thin shoulders going up and down. She whispered, "Do not be foolishly shy or too proud, and wait too long." Nonnie patted Zanne's head.
--- Copyright by Antoinette Beard/Sorelle Sucere 2021.
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