In America , livre ebook

In America
In America
Nina Romano
Turner Publishing Company
Nashville, Tennessee
New York, New York
www.turnerpublishing.com
In America
Copyright 2016 Nina Romano. All rights reserved.
This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design: Maddie Cothren
Book design: Kym Whitley
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Romano, Nina, 1942- author.
Title: In America / by Nina Romano.
Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Turner Publishing Company, [2016] | Series: Wayfarer trilogy ; book 3
Identifiers: LCCN 2015047648| ISBN 9781630269111 (softcover) | ISBN 9781681623832 (hardcover)
Classification: LCC PS3568.O549 I5 2016 | DDC 813/.54--dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015047648
9781681623832
Printed in the United States of America
15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Nico
and
in loving memory of my parents
Marie and John
In America
CHAPTER 1
Marcella
SINCE THE DAY I MADE my First Communion when I was five, in the lacy dress that looked like a wedding ensemble with veil included, I attended Mass with Mamma or Papa or both of them in Our Lady of Angels. The organ music gave me chills, and I knew the religious songs. I adored all music for that matter, and loved to sing. My mamma was partial to that church because her name was Angelica and she believed in those heavenly beings with or without wings that help us human beings in dire need of salvation, and anything else a human needs to survive on earth. Every Sunday, I d set a match to a candle in the alcove and pray on my knees in the lambent light for one thing and one thing only-to fall in love, the way Mamma loved Papa and vice versa. My thoughts usually went like this: maybe it hasn t happened yet because the saints above aren t listening; or maybe because I don t always drop a coin in the box before lighting the candle-little vixen that I am, Mamma always says. But it will happen; I know it will.
Even though I was only fifteen, I felt as though I was on the brink of womanhood, and in recent weeks, Gianni had been on my mind more than I d like to think of him-is that love? When I saw him, I d get this feeling of excitement. It felt like some gossamer sensing in the pit of my stomach wanted to rise, making me believe I could almost fly. But his family was difficult. Were they just protective? No, they appeared to be belligerent and snobbish-although somehow his gentle mannerisms and those soft hazel eyes and sweet disposition made me uncaring of their hoity-toity attitudes. Smart, wiry, athletic, and maybe even a little too handsome, he was entertaining, kind, and humble, not like his older brothers-not one bit. He was always polite and respectful toward my parents, shaking hands with Papa and asking after his health and kissing Mamma on both cheeks-he adored her, and she him. He was the only one I ve ever seen rob a meatball or dunk the heel of an Italian loaf in her Sunday sauce and get away with it. Even Papa would get his hand slapped, if he dared try. But not Gianni. He had this knack. First he d make moon eyes at her and then nod his head toward the pot. Next thing I knew she was handing him a plate and fork or a piece of bread and a napkin. It didn t seem fair, but I loved her all the more for doing it and him for getting away with it. I always thought it was because his mother died when he was so young. It was tragic to think of it.
What I d heard about his mother was that she had caught pneumonia on the freezing dock, the wind restless and scavenging, while she waited for Gianni s brother Giuseppe, who had left the seminary in Sicily and was coming to live and work with his brothers in their importing business on Stillwell Avenue. The poor woman had the day of his arrival wrong, and when her son finally did get to see her, she was laid out in a bier in the family s living room. What a shock that must have been for Giuseppe. Although I felt sorry for him, I can t really say that I liked him. He was one of those know-it-all bossy types who lorded everything over my Gianni, who doesn t work in the office or store with his brothers. Instead, they sent him out on routes to deliver provisions of olive oil and cheese.
The day after Christmas, Gianni came over and joined Jack and some of the neighborhood kids sledding down our hilly street. After an hour or so, they tired of that, and we all had a snowball fight. We broke into teams. Jack and Val built one fortress of packed snow, and Gianni and I made the other. At the end of the game, Jack and Val, being the absolute winners, quit to go have some hot chocolate.
Gianni and I made angels in the snow. Then he chased me and tried to douse me with snow. I begged for mercy, and he caught me, trying to put snow down my collar.
You re a more playful kid than Jack, I said.
You have red apple cheeks, he said, knocking snow off my hair and scarf. I d like to take a bite.
Don t you dare. I m out of breath-you soaked me.
All s fair in love and war, they say.
He pulled off one of his gloves and stuck it in his pocket, and taking my hand, pulled the glove off and handed it to me to put in my pocket. We walked back to the house, my hand snug in his.

RIGHT AFTER NEW YEAR S, GIANNI came over to deliver a can of imported Simoni olive oil to Mamma. He always came to the back of the house, knocked, and strolled in carrying Mamma s provisions. I heard him from the front porch, where I d just picked up the late mail, so I walked to the back kitchen to say hello. The day was biting cold, and the frigid air came blasting in with him. He shook.
I pointed at him. Why did you wear such a light jacket?
He unzipped it and said, I ve got a sweater on, a shirt, and an undershirt. Thought I d be warm enough.
Before he took the packages upstairs, I offered him a cup of hot chocolate to warm up as it was no trouble and I was going to make one for myself before starting my homework. The days were so short and the light faded fast toward late afternoon. The sun had never peeked out that day, so I lit a little lamp on a table by the window in the dinette off the yellow kitchen. The atmosphere seemed suddenly warmer, and I had him take a seat.
Take your jacket off, or you ll be even colder when you go back outside.
He took off his jacket, and as I prepared the cups and then served, we talked about the weather. Mamma always said never talk about clothes, men hate to hear it, and always sit up straight, and the list went on and on. So I asked him if he heard anything of late from his sisters in Italy.
Funny, he said, I was just thinking I should write them. When my mother died, we felt like orphans. They were four and six, and I was eight. I was in school and used to rush home to them and bring them candy whenever I could. I lost out on a lot of games and playing baseball, but it was always worth it when their tears turned to smiles as they stood at the window and watched me from behind the living room curtains. They d see me running toward them, and they would literally start to jump up and down. Good girls. I miss them. He cleared his throat.
Oh, my heart. My hand went to my chest with his telling of this story filled with emotion. Yes, in my secret heart of hearts, I stored this information. Never had I heard of such an unselfish boy, kind and considerate, leaving play and sports to rush to little sisters.
We made chitchat for quite a while, me gazing into his soft eyes, looking at his sweet mouth, wondering what it would be like to have those lips pressed to mine. I leaned over and picked up his cup. We were so close. I couldn t resist, and on impulse, kissed him. His lips yielded to mine exactly as I thought they would.
And then Mamma called down for Gianni. He grabbed the box of goods and practically bolted to the bottom of the stairs. I followed him with my eyes and watched his lean yet powerful legs pump into action as he took the stairs two at a time, his arms loaded.
He came downstairs about twenty minutes later. I knew what Gianni was up to-ingratiating himself in a loving and caring way because he wanted my mother s approval. He didn t realize it, but he didn t even have to try with Mamma. I had turned on the overhead lamp and was sitting at the dinette table with my books spread all over. He sat down and wrote the rest of the list that Mamma wanted in two weeks, in time for my sixteenth birthday.
He stopped writing, pocketed his notepad, and looked at me for a long time. Then he shrugged into his jacket. Walk me to the door?
I didn t answer so he took my hand and led me. His hand felt warm and strong, and I had lightning bugs all aglow in the pit of my stomach. Could this be romance?

PERHAPS FALLING IN LOVE WAS the thing I d need later in life to settle down, and maybe that wasn t going to happen for a long time, which was fine with me because what I truly wanted in life was to become a singer. My voice was not operatic, but I sure could belt out a tune. Of course, Mamma and Papa thought only loose women went on the stage to sing-or a professional, perhaps selling more than a song. This kind of singer my parents classified as a puttana .
I noticed that some of those singers drew on their faces what I had naturally above my lip-a birthmark, although Mamma always called it a beauty mark.
But I d been blessed. God had given me a gift-a great voice-and I sang all over the place, especially in the bathtub, and especially I m Forever Blowing Bubbles, but also all the songs I heard on the radio and in the movies. I sang on my way to school, sang at Mass, and sang walking down the str