To Annunziata, it seemed like such a sweet and innocent offer; she laughed and gave her son a hug. But young Dom couldn’t imagine anyone “more suitable” for Rosie than himself-he had been faking the pretend part. He would have married Rosie for real; the difference in their ages, or that they were vaguely related, was no stumbling block for him.
As for Rosie, it didn’t matter that the sixteen-year-old’s proposal, which was both sweet and not-so-innocent, was unrealistic-and probably illegal, even in northern New Hampshire. What affected the poor girl, who was still in the first trimester of her pregnancy, was that the lout who’d knocked her up had not offered to marry her-not even under what had amounted to considerable duress.
Given the predilections of the male members of both the Saetta and Calogero families, this “duress” took the form of multiple threats of castration ending with death by drowning. Whether it was Naples or Palermo the lout sailed back to was not made clear, but no marriage proposal was ever forthcoming. Dominic’s spontaneous and heartfelt offer was the first time anyone had proposed to Rosie; overcome, she burst into tears at the kitchen table before Dominic could poach the shrimp in his marinara sauce. Sobbing, the distraught young woman went to bed without her dinner.
In the night, Annunziata awoke to the confusing sounds of Rosie’s miscarriage-“confusing” because, at that moment, Nunzi didn’t know if the loss of the baby was a blessing or a curse. Dominic Baciagalupo lay in his bed, listening to his second or once-removed cousin crying. The toilet kept flushing, the bathtub was filling-there must have been blood-and, over it all, came the sympathetic crooning of his mother’s most consoling voice. “Rosie, maybe it’s better this way. Now you don’t need to quit your job-not even temporarily! Now we don’t have to come up with a husband for you-not a real one or the imaginary kind! Listen to me, Rosie-it wasn’t a baby, not yet.”
But Dominic lay wondering, What have I done? Even an imaginary marriage to Rosie gave the boy a nearly constant erection. (Well, he was sixteen years old-no wonder!) When he heard that Rosie had stopped crying, young Dom held his breath. “Did Dominic hear me-did I wake him up, do you think?” the boy heard the girl ask his mother.
“Well, he sleeps like the dead,” Nunzi said, “but you did make quite a ruckus-understandably, of course.”
“He must have heard me!” the girl cried. “I have to talk to him!” she said. Dominic could hear her step out of the tub. There was the vigorous rubbing of a towel, and the sound of her bare feet on the bathroom floor.
“I can explain to Dom in the morning,” his mother was saying, but his not-really-a-cousin’s bare feet were already padding down the hall to the spare room.
“No! I have something to tell him!” Rosie called. Dominic could hear a drawer open; a coat hanger fell in her closet. Then the girl was in his room-she just opened his door, without knocking, and lay down on the bed beside him. He could feel her wet hair touch his face.
“I heard you,” he told her.
“I’m going to be fine,” Rosie began. “I’ll have a baby, some other day.”
“Does it hurt?” he asked her. He kept his face turned away from her on the pillow, because he had brushed his teeth too long ago-he was afraid his breath was bad.
“I didn’t think I wanted the baby until I lost it,” Rosie was saying. He couldn’t think of what to say, but she went on. “What you said to me, Dominic, was the nicest thing anyone ever said to me-I’ll never forget it.”
“I would marry you, you know-I wasn’t just saying it,” the boy said.
She hugged him and kissed his ear. She was on top of the covers, and he was under them, but he could still feel her body pressing against his back. “I’ll never have a nicer offer-I know it,” his not-really-a-cousin said.
“Maybe we could get married when I’m a little older,” Dominic suggested.
“Maybe we will!” the girl cried, hugging him again.
Did she mean it, the sixteen-year-old wondered, or was she just being nice?
From the bathroom, where Annunziata was draining and scrubbing the tub, their voices were audible but indistinct. What surprised Nunzi was that Dominic was talking; the boy rarely spoke. His voice was still changing-it was getting lower. But from the moment Annunziata had heard Rosie say, “Maybe we will!”-well, Dominic began to talk and talk, and the girl’s interjections grew fainter but lengthier. What they said was indecipherable, but they were whispering as breathlessly as lovers.
As she went on compulsively cleaning the bathtub, Annunziata no longer wondered if the miscarriage had been a blessing or a curse; the miscarriage was no longer the point. It was Rosie Calogero herself-was she a blessing or a curse? What had Nunzi been thinking? She’d opened her house to a pretty, intelligent (and clearly emotional) young woman-one who’d been rejected by her lover and banished from home by her family-without realizing what an irresistible temptation the twenty-three-year-old would be for a lonely boy coming of age.
Annunziata got off her knees in the bathroom and went down the hall to the kitchen, noting that the door to her son’s bedroom was partially open and the whispering went on and on. In the kitchen, Nunzi took a pinch of salt and threw it over her shoulder. She resisted the impulse to intrude on the two of them, but-first stepping back into the hall-she raised her voice.
“My goodness, Rosie, you must forgive me,” Annunziata announced. “I never even asked you if you wanted to go back to Boston !” Nunzi had tried to make this not appear to be her idea; she’d attempted a neutral or indifferent tone, as if she were speaking strictly out of consideration for what Rosie herself wanted to do. But the murmuring from Dominic’s bedroom was broken by a sudden, shared intake of breath.
Rosie felt the boy gasp against her chest the second she was aware of her own gasp. It was as if they had rehearsed the answer, so perfectly in unison was their response. “No!” Annunziata heard her son and Rosie cry; they were a chorus.
Definitely not a blessing, Nunzi was thinking, when she heard Rosie say, “I want to stay here, with you and Dominic. I want to teach at the school. I don’t ever want to go back to Boston!” (I can’t blame her for that, Annunziata realized; she knew the feeling.)
“I want Rosie to stay!” Nunzi heard her son call out.
Well, of course you do! Annunziata thought. But what would the repercussions of the difference in their ages be? And what would happen if and when the country went to war, and all the young men went? (But not her beloved Kiss of the Wolf-not with a limp like that, Nunzi knew.)
ROSIE CALOGERO KEPT her job and did it well. The young cook also kept his job and did it well-well enough that the breakfast place started serving lunch, too. In a short time, Dominic Baciagalupo became a much better cook than his mom. And whatever the young cook made for lunch, he brought the best of it home for dinner; he fed his mother and his not-really-a-cousin very well. On occasion, mother and son would still cook together, but on most culinary matters, Annunziata yielded to Dominic.
He made meat loaf with Worcestershire sauce and provolone, and served it warm with his multipurpose marinara sauce-or cold, with applesauce. He did breaded chicken cutlets alla parmigiana; in Boston, his mother had told him, she’d made veal Parmesan, but in Berlin he couldn’t get good veal. (He substituted pork for veal-it was almost as good.) Dominic made eggplant Parmesan, too-the sizable contingent of French Canadians in Berlin knew what aubergine was. And Dom did a leg of lamb with lemon and garlic and olive oil; the olive oil came from a shop Nunzi knew in Boston, and Dominic used it to rub roast chicken or baste turkey, both of which he stuffed with cornbread and sausage and sage. He did steaks under the broiler, or he grilled the steaks, which he served with white beans or roasted potatoes. But he didn’t much care for potatoes, and he loathed rice. He served most of his main dishes with pasta, which he did very simply-with olive oil and garlic, and sometimes with peas or asparagus. He cooked carrots in olive oil with black Sicilian olives, and more garlic. And although he detested baked beans, Dominic would serve them; there were lumbermen and mill workers, mostly old-timers who’d lost their teeth, who ate little else. (“The baked beans and pea soup crowd,” Nunzi called them disparagingly.)