Little short story for Sunday, "He Always Comes Home to Me."

“He always comes home to me.”  I cannot even count how many times I have heard my aunt Anna say that, and each time it angered me more and more.  I must have overheard my aunt say that thousands of times while I was growing up. When one of the gaccarones who cloistered around my mother’s table for too strong coffee and biscotti would say how they saw my uncle Patsy enjoying the company of another woman or spending the day at the track while his own children did without, her comment was always the same… “As long as he comes home to me.”

This was a comment that I could not understand and one that I knew I would never say.  I loved my aunt, my mother too of course, but I was on another path.  It was a path that would take me far from here, far from this kitchenette and out of this neighborhood.  I am not saying that I am any better than them; in fact my aunt is a beautiful woman, stunning to be honest. Stories go that when she was a younger woman walking down Mulberry Street men would practically break their neck to get an eye of her beauty, young boys newly driving had to swerve as half their body was sprawled out of the car window just to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Anna. But like most of the girls at her time she did not know a life off of Mulberry Street, she did not know that the world offered a lot more than just marriage, children and going to church each Sunday regardless of whether you believed your prayers or the God that that they were supposed to be going to.

She married young, young even for her day’s standards, and never once thought of a life down a different path. Three children, two girls and a boy, came in quick succession and the title of housewife now also incorporated mother. She spent most of her mornings on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor and walls of the two bedroom flat that they lived in above my parents. The afternoon was spent preparing the gravy and pasta for dinner and everyday like clockwork, an hour before her husband was expected to come home from whatever job he was able to find that day, she would transform herself into something radiant.  One would never imagine by looking at her that most of her day was spent in a worn housecoat, her hands wrought with the smell of pine and bleach and her hair perfumed with the scents of garlic and oil, with a baby on her hip and a wooden spoon in her hand in front of a stove making sure that the gravy doesn’t stick because uncle Patsy would hit the roof if his dinner tasted burnt.

 The tragic part of her day was that after all that cleaning, all of that cooking and all that pampering to look beautiful for her husband, the majority of the time he never came home anyway. The thought of her sitting at that table with three doe eyed kids looking at a bowl of pasta getting cold because she wouldn’t let them eat until their dad got home used to bring me to tears almost every night. Finally after the sun would begin to descend and the hunger pangs were more than enough to keep the youngest from crying she would give in and just tell them to eat and that there father would surely be home any moment.  On the rare occasion that he did find his way home within a reasonable hour he usually was not sober enough to notice that his house was spotless, dinner was sitting on the table or that his wife managed to do all this and still look stunning.

I will never forget when Uncle Patsy died and the sickness in my stomach as I watched my Aunt Anna crying by his coffin in the funeral home.  People throughout all of little Italy said that you could hear her sobs of “Mio Pasquale, Mio Amor” for blocks and blocks. I could not grasp how all these people could let her mourn this man. Everyone in that room knew that he could be heavy with his hands on her from time to time and how he usually preferred the company of other women.  They were all well aware that his three kids often relied on the generosity of the neighborhood to eat and be shoed because what Patsy didn’t spend on women, booze and the horses, he spent on himself.  Yet, they still let her canonized him like a saint and throw herself at the coffin that my parents bought because God knows that Uncle Patsy didn’t even leave her with the food in their cabinets… it was bought on credit. Every one saw this honest display of emotion, everyone knew that the cold lifeless body in the coffin did not deserve it, and all that I could think was that even after his death he is still making a fool out of her.

She mourned the man as if he was as pure as the driven snow.  She did everything that the elders on Mulberry Street claimed she needed to do to be a proper widowed woman. I don’t know where you grew up or wear you hang your hat now but this may surprise you, there are certain areas even in this day and age, in this great country of ours, which the rules and etiquette set by a bunch of old ladies carries more weight than the law itself. In proper mourning protocol Aunt Anna wore black after that day for as long as I remember and went one full year not celebrating a single joyous event; even missing out on Christmas and Thanksgiving. You must remember that she was a young widow, not even forty years of age when she buried her husband and though she was still quite an attractive woman she never once accepted the advances of any gentlemen callers, not one single date, not even a harmless cup of coffee.  She viewed any such wrongdoing as a slap in the face to the man she called her husband for two decades.  Within two months of my Uncle Patty’s death my Aunt Anna and the kids moved in with us.  She aged practically overnight after that. No longer dressing as nice as she once did and not even bothering dying the strands of grey as the crept into what was once her jet black mane of hair.  She continued to speak of her Pasquale as if he did no wrong while he walked the earth and God forbid anyone would question the accuracy of her memory of him for they would more than likely feel her wrath. Aunt Anna did not follow her husband into the next life for almost another thirty years after he left this world but all of us who knew her felt that she might as well have been lowered down into the grave with him that very same day, for that would be the day she ceased to go on living.

I did make my way out of little Italy. Inspired by my aunt’s predicament I guaranteed myself that I would do anything in my power to ensure I did not suffer the same fate. I studied hard in school, joining every club that I thought would boost my chances of getting into college and when acceptance letters came from not one but three different schools, for the first time I was able to envision a life different from the ones that I had been surrounded by since my parents brought me home from the hospital.

College life was everything that I expected it to be and more.  It was an opportunity to totally reinvent yourself and be free of the shadow that describes the majority of the girls you grew up with. While they were getting their mom’s wedding dresses fitted to their frames or picking out colors for the surprise nursery I was debating politics in auditoriums and spending my weekends in museums. I didn’t just grow up, I grew out and beyond the reach of the old neighborhood; a place that I never considered defined me to begin with.

I did marry shortly after graduate school and was blessed with two little girls of my own. Thanks to my husband becoming a partner in his accounting firm I no longer have to work and am able to spend more time focusing on the children and making our new house a home. Some days I envy my neighbors as I see them get in their cars and head off to work. Prior to our oldest daughter, Fillomena, being born I made an okay living for myself too as a restorer of fine art.  I oh so loved bringing a long lost piece back to life again and if you ask my colleagues I was quite good at.

But how could I complain? Marc was a good man where it mattered most. He was a phenomenal provider for me and the children, ensuring that we wanted for nothing regardless of the cost.  He is the assistant coach on little Angela’s soccer team and when time is available even takes me out to dinner once or twice a month.  I would be lying if I was to say that out passion is roaring like that of a festival pyre but as you learn with age those stories are only for the fairy tales and hopeless romantics. Being a realist you begin to settle for a roof over your head, someone who never hurts you or belittles you and most importantly you cherish the security for your children.

Marc is forced to work a lot of late nights and is often away on business trips. After a few winless fights we adapted the “don’t ask/don’t tell” policy in order to keep the peace and not upset the children.  Just in case his flight gets cancelled or the meeting is rescheduled I make sure that the house is always spotless, dinner is on the table and that the kids and I look nice and neat. It may not be the life that I envisioned when I first left the old neighborhood and In fact just recently little Fillomena said something that I pray her own daughter never says to her;

“Mommy…. Mom… why do you make such a fuss for daddy every night even if he doesn’t come home in time to enjoy it? Why make such a big meal and get all dressed looking all pretty if you don’t know if he will even see it?”

“FIllomenna, who does Daddy come home to every night?”

“You Mommy, you.”

“That’s right, he always comes home to me at night.”