Yours Always: Part I
I was going with Angelo Spanolli at the time. He was a good Italian boy; my father really liked him. When Angelo would drop me off after seeing a movie, my father would sit with him on the front stoop drinking and smoking. My siblings — even Magdalena, only a few years behind me — would press their ears to the front door to listen to them talk. I think they all thought I was going to marry Angelo Spanolli. But I had seen how Mr. Spanolli knocked his wife about to want to get too involved with a Spanolli boy. Mrs. Spanolli would show up to church Sunday mornings with make-up caked around one eye, the pale blue bruise still shadowed under the concealer. My mother would always tell me not to look too hard; she didn’t seem to have a problem with me going with a Spanolli either although I’d observed that every good Italian boy turns out exactly like his father.
Even though I had no intention of marrying Angelo, it didn’t mean that a girl couldn’t enjoy getting treated to dinner and a movie every now and then. He was the perfect thing for me at the time, really. We had just graduated high school, the proud class of ’57. I was working as a sales clerk at the Main Street Shoe Shop while I went to school for bookkeeping. Angelo was a way to convince my family I was not becoming too independent.
We were on our way to the movies when he asked me if I could do him a favor. He had one hand on the steering wheel of the shiny new Chevrolet Bel Air he got saving up money at his dad’s auto-shop. The other hand was draped behind the buttercream leather seat. I could have slid over next to him and rested under his arm, but I chose to lean against the passenger side window, the glass cold with the October air. From here I could admire his thick dark hair, slicked back a little bit the way he always did when we were going out. He had full eyebrows and a strong nose — he could have stepped fresh off the boat from Italy. But we were alike — first generation Americans whose fathers still spoke with thick accents. I didn’t appear Italian though, with my red hair and fair skin. Apparently, I looked like my father’s mother back in Tuscany, so despite my appearance my father always knew I was his.
He turned to me and said, “Bea, I’ve got a friend who’s dying. Would you mind if we swung by the hospital on the way to the movies? It will be fast — we’ll only miss the previews.”
Dread filled my stomach as I thought of meeting this dying stranger.
“No, it’s alright. We can stop,” I told Angelo.
It’s a good thing I did because we pulled up in front of the hospital a few minutes later. He had made the decision and only asked out of courtesy.
I did not appreciate that.
Angelo parked the car, and went around to my side to offer me his hand. My kitten heels clacked unforgivingly against the cement. He probably didn’t notice that I was pleased with how angry my shoes sounded. I gripped my clutch firmly in one hand, and linked the other hand through Angelo’s arm.
The hospital smelled sterile as though they were trying to cover up the truth about death that stalked the halls. When we walked into the room, I knew that death was about to visit again. Angelo’s friend lay in the hospital bed so thin and frail that I was afraid the single sheet on the bed was crushing him. His skin was yellow and stretched tight across cheek bones that could have once been beautiful. A tube was hooked up to his nose and wires flowed out of his wrists; he looked like the futuristic monster out of the movie Angelo and I were on our way to see.
There was a radio by his bed spouting scores from the Yankee game. He smiled faintly when Angelo walked in, and his smile doubled when he saw me. I remember thinking his teeth were surprisingly nice for someone who was dying.
“How’ya doing, Tony?” Angelo asked. His friend shrugged. The effort looked agonizing.
“My mother finally went home for the day, so I have a little peace and quiet at least.”
“And the pneumonia?”
“Still there.”
I stood off to the side, watching them. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to act.
“Hi,” Angelo’s friend said. It took me a moment to realize he was addressing me. I offered a small smile. “Sorry to ruin your evening. I’m Thomas.” He lifted his hand to offer a handshake, but his arms trembled when he lifted them. I moved to his side and took his hand, freezing, in mine and let him rest it back down on the bed.
“Beatrice. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” My formality seemed to make him smile. “Why do they call you Tony?” I asked, hoping to sound more casual.
“I dunno. Sounds more Italian I guess,” Angelo answered for him.
“There’s more to life than being Italian.”
“Yeah, try being Irish.” Thomas grinned at me. I quite liked his smile.
“No, Tony. You don’t know what you’re missing. An Italian boy gets the pretty Italian girl and then they have lots of Italian babies.” Angelo snuck his arms around my waist and planted a big, wet kiss on my cheek. I swatted at him with my clutch. When I looked over at Thomas again he was busy fiddling with the radio.
“I’m really sorry about him.” I smoothed my skirt. Thomas wouldn’t look up.
“Eh, don’t mind him, Bea. He’s always tinkering with that old radio.” Angelo tried to hold my hand again. I pulled away.
“Don’t tease him. I’m sure Thomas here is five times smarter than you and me.”
Thomas let out a wheezing laugh that sounded like he was trying to launch his lungs from his body. “I’m smarter than him, definitely. But I don’t know about you just yet.”
When it was time to leave, Thomas offered me his hand again. This time I took it in both of mine and held it there for a second. I hoped that it would be just a little warmer.
Angelo didn’t talk in the car. I didn’t either. I titled my head back and listened to the Everly Brothers croon “Bye Bye Love” through the radio. I wondered if Thomas was listening to it right now.
I hoped that the movie would be better than the car ride, but I was wrong. Angelo grumbled the whole time, and even neglected to ask if I wanted popcorn. When he dropped me off at home, he didn’t get out of the car to open my door.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, everything’s fine.”
“Really, because I thought you must have a broken leg since you aren’t going to walk me up.”
“God almighty, Beatrice. Just leave me alone.”
The wind howled around the car and I shivered in my swing coat. Angelo didn’t bother to turn up the heat.
“I did not appreciate you joking around at the hospital, particularly about having babies.” I refused to look at Angelo and instead acted like I was adjusting my gloves.
“Don’t you want babies? Come on, Bea. Don’t you think it’s time to get married? We’ve been going long enough. Tonight was supposed to be romantic.”
“Then you shouldn’t have taken me to the hospital.”
Angelo slammed his hand against the steering wheel and the whole car rocked. I backed up against the door and gripped the handle, just in case.
“You made a fool of me back there.” Angelo’s eyebrows knit together. He looked a lot like his father.
“You did that to yourself. Who flirts with his girl in front of his dying friend?” I opened the door and stepped out. I did not need Angelo to walk me to the door.
“Bea!” He snapped. But I was out of the car now and no longer afraid.
“I don’t want to see you anymore.” I slammed the door shut. Angelo rose to get out of the car. I kicked off my heels and ran straight to the front door. The witch’s burs from our sweetgum tree tore holes in my stockings.
When I turned around at the door, Angelo was still standing by the driver’s door of his car. He was leaning his arms against the roof and his head was buried in his hands. I went inside.
My father was waiting for me at the kitchen table, hunched over the newspaper. “Beatrice? What happened to your feet? Where are your shoes?”
“In the front yard.” I looked down and realized my feet were bleeding. I grabbed a couple rags from the bucket my mother kept beside the sink, and sat down beside my father. He watched me as I wrapped my feet — damn those sweetgum trees. For the first time, my siblings weren’t pressed up against the door to listen to Angelo talk. I longed for Magdalena’s incessant questions. I was alone with my father in the kitchen.
“I broke up with Angelo.”
“He asked me if he could marry you.”
“Well, he didn’t ask me.” My feet roughly bandaged, I left the table and waddled towards my room.
“Beatrice! What happened tonight?” My father called after me.
“I don’t want to talk about it!”
And so I didn’t for six months.
Continue to Part II
