Read Online Swimming in the Moon: A Novel by Pamela Schoenewaldt - Free Book Online Page A

death. Yes, I lied to her. I didn’t want to be a bastard in America.
    A warm hand touched my cheek. “I fall from streetcar. But live. Poor Lucia. Alone with the mamma.”
    When I finally left my friend’s room, Roseanne pulled me aside. “How did you make her talk? She never talks.”
    “I asked questions. We used English and drawings—and buttons.” Roseanne’s eyes widened as if I’d acquired astonishing powers.
    That night I prayed for Casimir to come and bundle Irena into a warm, familiar Polish world. I prayed for Mamma to find peace, for the count to treat the countess well, or at least return to Capri, and for myself to graduate from high school. Sleepless, I followed wildly running ceiling cracks that recalled the swirling foam of tide pools. Outside, a slow clop of horses pulled me back to Cleveland and my poem: “The- smith -a- migh -ty- man -is- he -with- large -and- sin -ewy- hands .”
    The next day, Mamma came home in a foul humor. The chocolate vats were too hot for swirls to form properly, so Little Stingler, the owner’s son, wouldn’t pay for half the day’s production. He also fired a girl for “insolence.”
    “Insolence about what?”
    “Never mind. And we can’t sing. Little Stingler thinks we’re singing about him. The old man isn’t so bad, but the young one’s a bastard. A Sicilian girl who sits by the door whistles when he’s coming.”
    “Well, were you singing about him?”
    “Of course. He doesn’t understand Italian. If I don’t do something to get even, I’ll think bad thoughts and then one day—”
    “You better keep that job,” Roseanne warned. “If you make trouble they put you on the blacklist and nobody hires you. Then how do you pay rent?”
    I looked anxiously at Mamma, who seemed unconcerned. Something clattered in the kitchen. Seizing my chance, I speared more meat for Irena. “One piece each,” Roseanne warned. “That’s the rule.”
    “But she’s so thin.”
    “And it’s tough as shoe leather anyway,” Mamma added.
    “You think stew meat grows on trees? You know what it costs these days?” Thus began another litany of the price of beef, potatoes, dried beans, lard, onions, and turnips. If prices kept rising, what could poor folks eat? Cats and dogs like the heathen Chinese?
    “So, where can I buy good marzipan and salami?” Mamma interrupted.
    This was a clever ploy: Roseanne loved giving advice. “Go to Catalano’s on Woodland Avenue. It’s like you’re home again.”
    After dinner I took Mamma aside as she headed for the piano. “We have to pay back the countess. We can’t buy imported food.”
    “Don’t we deserve it, after the pig swill we eat here?”
    “Shh, Mamma, she’ll hear you. We can’t be buying more food.”
    “You think I like dipping chocolate all day? My back hurts, my shoulders hurt, and you’re at school learning poetry.” Her nostrils flared. “I want something special that isn’t chocolate. Don’t you?”
    I did, actually. I longed for Nannina’s cooking and home tastes. “Well, we could get a couple things.”
    “Exactly. The countess has plenty of money. She can wait a little longer.”
    That Sunday was astonishingly mild. “See? We’ll have a good day,” Mamma said, taking my arm as we stepped out of the boardinghouse. “We’ll eat by the water like we used to. Don’t worry. I’ll make enough money and maybe you’ll work a little. Breathe. There’s not so much factory smell here.” I gulped in the bright air, scrubbed clean by night winds. Quick walking was a pleasure.
    In Catalano’s store, everything American melted away. We spoke our own dialect, jostling and bargaining as if we were home again. I tried to hold back, saving pennies for the countess, but in the end we bought wine and bread, smoked mozzarella, salami, a paper cone of salted fava beans, marzipan, and two ricotta pastries. Then we took a streetcar to Lake Erie, found flat rocks to sit on, and opened our