Instead, I hold in my lap a giant spool of pink and white cotton thread, and now when I open my eyes and set to work again, I am moving the hook swiftly and steadily, tightening the thread, pulling up and looping and tightening, looping and tightening, and slowly but surely, a new shape emerges.
I bless Adelina for giving her to me. When she first offered the kitten that same day Nunzi and I arrived to pick up "our son," Pasquale, I thought it odd. Why would Lina think I should need a pet? After all, I was getting my son back!
But Adelina knew what she was up to. It quickly became apparent after Nunzi and I arrived back here in Paola, how difficult it would be for us to share the baby.
Oh, there were moments when he was crying without stopping, whether because he had flatulence, or some other noisy complaint. In those moments I was happy to step back and yield him up to Nunzi.
But there were just as many moments when I wanted to keep him all to myself in the rocking chair la sedia a dondolo. Pasquale was after all my baby, wasn't he? Or was he? I had carried him deep inside me for nine months, so close that he could feel and hear my heartbeat. But now, he sleeps every night between Nunzi and her husband, while I am back in my old bed at Mama's.
I am happy to have Gemella sleeping beside me. And it is so reassuring to have her here with me in the square where I sit, crocheting, talking to neighbors who stop by for a few moments to chat.
I bless Mama for teaching me to crochet, because now it appears that this skill will save me from absolute poverty. And also, from insanity too.
I crochet from morning to night: just after first light, even before I have my bread and coffee, I pick up the needle, and try not to think about Nunzi feeding my precious Pasquale la colazione, his breakfast of thick gruel.
My throat tightens and I stop, my chin drops, tears begin leaking from the corners of my eyes, but there is no one to tell my troubles to. I take a big breath in and wipe my eyes and begin crocheting again. Slowly but surely a long piece of pink and white lace grows out of my fingers. I am proud to say that each piece I produce is graceful, each one more intricate than the last.
Sometime during the day, I move to the village square and take up my crocheting there. People stop to chat about this and that. I listen to one or another woman complain: the old women tell me about backaches and swollen ankles, arthritis and indigestion. They lift their skirts to show me their swollen blue varicose veins. The young women tell me they are looking for a husband, they either have no children and desperately want one, or they have too many and are desperate not to get pregnant.
I am deeply grateful to Natale, a childhood friend of Mama's, who came by my table on a day when I had first began working in pink and white cotton. She sat down at the table beside me and asked if she could touch the lace.
"Certo, certo," I replied. I set the lace in her lap, and smiling, she told me the color made her happy! She asked if I wanted to sell the lace. My eyes widened. It hadn't occurred to me to go into business, but now, the idea had some appeal. Natale's face spread into a smile. Her husband, Pietro, is a fisherman in Paola, and he transports the morning's catch by donkey over the mountain to Cosenza. "There is a place I know the owner, I think she would love to sell this!" Lo and behold, Natale is now acting on my behalf selling my lace, first at the store called "Pizzo Perfetto," (Perfect Lace!) where she knows the owner. But then when she was in the store, she met a merchant from Naples, who now takes my crocheted items up north to Naples. Every week, Natale brings me a small pile of lira. But hey, it adds up! So proud Natale is to lay the money on my kitchen table. "How fast can you crochet?" she said, laughing triumphantly last week. "Quanto velocemente puoi lavorare all'uncinetto?"
Apparently, the man she calls Ticardo placed a large order for some of my most popular designs, including the one I call "The Perfect V." It is perfetto for a lady's blouse or nightgown. I am content to crochet my lace, which seems to appeal to some faceless women with a lot of money to spare.
All this should make me feel happy. It does, but still, I am in misery.
Pasquale is now six months old. He is a big boy, with eyes as black as olives and so much straight black hair. Such a magnificent baby, the most beautiful I have ever seen. When I said that to Nunzi recently she laughed at me. "Oh Fi, don't you know, every mother thinks her baby is the most perfect!" That comment irked me. Maybe because Nunzi is forever telling me that I must accept the fact that she is raising Pasquale. But then she makes this comment suggesting that I'm the baby's mother? She confuses me. Some mornings when I stop by (I try to be at Nunzi's house by 7:30 every morning) she is busy with the other children and she happily hands him over to me with a bowl of gruel. But just as often when I arrive, Pasquale is still asleep and I've got to just sit there and wait until Nunzi says it's time to get him up. "Ma perche?" -- but why? I asked her this the other day. She said there is too much confusion in the mornings, with breakfast and everyone getting ready for the day. How ridiculous! I was tempted to say, "Well, if there is so much confusion at your house, Nunzi, why don't you loan the baby to me for the morning!" made me agree that I would give the baby up after two months. In the end, she gave me two weeks more. I lived up to my end of the bargain but my heart is still shrivelled.
For 65 days I lived with Adelina. Helped out on the farm, feeding cows and chickens. Baked bread. Washed so many, many diapers, between those of Pia and those of my son. Thankfully I wore a large wrap around my shoulder and chest so that at every moment, I could hold Pasquale folded against my chest.
Those days were the happiest of my life. My heart exploded with love every morning when I opened my eyes to see my baby's dark eyes, his silky olive skin. And then came the day that Nunzi arrived.
March 17th. I was outdoors, sitting on the wall near the well. The spring air was everywhere. Birds making sweet noises. I held Pasquale on my lap, he was facing me, and I tickled his thick belly. Caressing his chins, I laughed and talked to him until he chuckled back at me. Oh did his eyes shine.
It was a sunny morning that day, but still quite cool. And then I heard the dreaded sound. The wheels of the cart, squeaking with rust. I looked up to see Nunzi approaching. She wore a black scarf over her reddish hair and I thought, yes, you have dressed appropriately: for mourning.
"Come sta Filo?" she asked as she pulled the donkey to a halt.
I nodded my head. I considered telling her the truth: terribile! But instead, I just kept nodding and talking to Pasquale, who I had taken to calling Froggy. Ranocchio. "Bongiorno Nunzi," I said, finally forcing myself to look at her with a big fake smile.
I had been over this moment so many many times in my head and now the deadly hour had come.
I scooped up the baby and held him to my shoulder. "I will be only a few minutes packing my things," I said, patting the baby's back.
My eyes blurred with tears as I turned to the house. Adelina and Pia greeted me at the door. Adelina saw my tears and caught me by the elbow. "My poor friend!" she whispered. "This isn't fair."
I rushed by her into the house, went straight to my tiny bed in the corner of the living room. I piled Pasquale's things and slipped them into a satchel along with my own few pieces of clothing. I saw Gemella look at me with curious eyes. And then she started purring. Adelina had offered her to me but I had declined, over and over. Now I decided to catch her up in my arms and hold her tight.
I stood at the door, watching Adelina and Nunzi outdoors; they were holding up Pia and Pasquale side by side. Even though he is younger by two weeks, my son is longer and fuller than Pia. No wonder, considering his father is more than six feet tall.
All of a sudden, blood rushed to my face as I thought of Giovanni. I wondered if Vanni ever thinks of me. I wondered if he is ever even a bit curious about his son. Does he even know I had a boy? Closing my eyes I could see his face, and then just as quickly I erased him from my mind. What kind of man abandons the woman he says he loves more than all the stars above?
Quickly, I stepped out into the March sunlight, holding my breath. Nunzi praised me for bringing such a beautiful boy into the world. "He is growing so well." Then she asked if I would rather drive the cart, or hold Pasquale for the trip. My heart started slamming. "I am his mother no matter what happens," I say. "So I will hold him today and any other day I have that chance."
The ride down to Paola took two hours; I wanted to stretch it on forever. Nunzi took us back to her place. The air was cool, but my face was sweating. Pasquale could tell I was nervous, he started to fuss.
"I must feed him," I said to Nunzi, "to calm him down."
Nunzi frowned. "But Filo this must be the very last time," she said. "Carmela has been very patient, but we should not take advantage of her."
"Oh fooey on her," I mumbled, but some other more colorful words came to mind.
Nunzi's eyebrows flew up like two black crows, the way they do when she is irritated. "I have found one of the kindest ladies in all of Italy to care for your little one," she said.
"I know I know, you said so before, more than once!"
"So be grateful Filo. We've managed to keep him out of the foundling home. I have heard just this week of another infant dying there."
I thought maybe she was trying to scare me, and that got me angry, but I was determined not to give into my tears today. As soon as I switched Pasquale to the other breast, I started to say my Hail Mary's and I said them over and over and over again as Nunzi reached for Pasquale.
"All will be well," Nunzi whispered, and I pulled out the rosary that Adelina had given me and I said the rosary, sitting there, crying, barely able to pray as she took him away forever.
That was four months ago, and soon after I gave up the baby, I resurrected my nonna's crochet hook and her cotton thread. It soothed me to sit and wind the thread into fantastic patterns; like nonna, I found I could design the patterns as I worked. After all, I had watched her do it for so many many years.
I kept Gemella close by and at moments when I thought I was going to die for missing my little one, I picked up the white kitten and wrapped her in my arms, and set my face into the fur between her ears. Ah, but that comforted me.
And now that summer has come, I've taken to the town square to work. That old man, Baffo, sips a glass of red wine at the next table. By the middle of the afternoon he is barely able to keep his head up.
And me, I sip a cup of acqua con gas, and a cafe now and then. When I look at the lace this morning, I reaize that it is taking a new shape: I am crocheting something in the shape of a V. And then I realize, this would be beautiful placed against a woman's chest, for a blouse or a fancy nightgown. I smile, wondering how many lira this will fetch.
An hour passes. Baffo is face down on the next table so when I hear the voice at first I am uncertain who is talking to me.
"Filo are you so busy you can't take a moment to speak?"
The crochet hook comes to rest between my fingers. My eyes linger on the lace. Slowly I turn my face to see. Him. My heart comes slamming up my throat. I feel tears gather behind my eyes. I refuse to turn toward him.
"Why...why have you come?" My voice has thorns.
A short laugh. "What, I'm not allowed to visit Paola? I have business here today."
My anger boils over. I turn to him. His jaw is clean shaven, and his blue eyes dance. His blonde curls are thick, but today I want to spit on him. "Like hell you have business here! No, Vanni, I think instead you are the scum of the earth, the cruelest man alive. Now that I've delivered your son, now that I am deep in suffering over my baby, you have come to see me? Bruta!" My anger dissolves in tears. My fingers trembling, I wrap my lace and needle into my satchel and scoop up Gamella. "You my friend can go straight to hell where you belong."
Instead, I just leave him in the square. As I do the bells of St. Frances chime. I'm headed home when instead I decide to go to Nunzi's to tell her of my lace in the shape of a perfect V. And then I see another new shape: I will crochet a short jacket with a plunging neckline and cap sleeves. Something for a bride or a new mother! I lift my head higher and hurry on.
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