Now she was alone with Carmelo and the weight of the situation was hers to bear. Stewing in her bad feelings was not going to save her hide. She needed to focus on Carmelo, on ending the courtship.
She hadn’t picked her tactic yet; was she going to be cold and polite and very distant? Or outright mean and rude? Or should she be normal and friendly, since it was so hard to not warm up to Carmelo, and just tell him plainly that she appreciated his effort, but she was never going to say yes and wouldn’t it be easiest for them both if he would stop trying? She still hadn’t decided when they arrived at Tom’s Restaurant, which Carmelo had chosen for dinner.
Throughout the meal—she ordered a hamburger, and Carmelo followed suit—she vacillated. Every time she realized she was chatting too warmly, she would get angry with herself and retreat into a sulk, but then she would feel stupid and weak. The meal was exhausting whenever she remembered she wasn’t supposed to be enjoying herself.
And Stella felt shabby sitting across from him in this brightly lit diner. She imagined the other diners looking at them, a handsome, well-dressed man and a barely groomed woman wearing no makeup, not even a little lipstick. She suppressed flashes of regret. Vanity, she would not let vanity be her downfall. The opinions of strangers meant nothing.
Carmelo was undaunted. In fact, he became increasingly comfortable and confident over the course of the meal. He talked to her about his twin sister in Montreal, his parents and brother back home in the Abruzzi. He asked her polite questions he already knew the answersto; she was disadvantaged because he had spent so much time trying to get to know her.
“Next time,” Carmelo said as Stella folded her napkin and placed it on her empty plate, “I can take you down to the rose garden.”
Stella had enjoyed the hamburger; she was feeling content. She shook herself out of that stupor. “Carmelo. There isn’t going to be a next time.”
“Yes, there is.” He winked at her, so self-assured.
She felt a rile of hatred—yes, that was good. Nurture that. “I’m here because my father made me go out with you. You know that. I don’t like you, and I never will.”
“Oh, you’ll see. I’ll make you like me.” He winked again. “I think you do already anyway.”
“Carmelo. Listen to me.” The wink disgusted her. She bit down on her frustration, spoke clearly and slowly so that maybe this time he would hear what she said. “This—you and me—isn’t going to go anywhere. You can chase me all you want, but I am never going to get married. Not to you, not to anyone.”
“Bullshit,” he said jovially. “Every woman wants to get married.”
“Not me.” Her chest was tight. The fury of last night had come back, and now it was all directed at him.
“Yes, you do,” he said. “Even if you don’t know it yet. You’ll change your mind. Just watch.”
She stared at him across the table. For the first time, she noticed he had several unruly eyebrow hairs that splayed out of formation, poking up like insect antennae. “Carmelo. I’m telling you I don’t love you, and I never will. You’re not listening.”
He shrugged, counting money out of his wallet, but his smile had tightened. “You think you know what you want, Stella, but you’re going to realize you’re wrong.”
Her fury bubbled in her throat. It was like talking to a wall. “Why are you so persistent?” she asked. “There are a hundred other girls who like you. Quit wasting your time on me.”
Carmelo’s eyes were bright as he met her gaze. “Stella, I’ve seen our future together. It’s a good one. You’ll see it, too. We’re meant to be together, we have been since we were born.” She scoffed. Was he serious? “Listen. My friend Rocco is going to come back from the war and he’s going to start a family with your sister. Think about how nice it would be if you and I got married. Our children would grow up together like brothers and sisters.”
She’d teetered through years of ambivalence about Carmelo Maglieri—was he genuine or dangerous, sweet and gentle or cagey and manipulative? Now she understood: as kind as he seemed, Carmelo was as macho and controlling as Tony, just in his own way. Carmelo didn’t love Stella—how could he, when he couldn’t even listen to what she had to say? All he loved was his own dream of his own future, which he needed her for. He had no interest in trying to understand why she wouldn’t want to be a part of it.
She needed to drive him off. Do something drastic to disrupt his fantasy. She looked down at her arms, resting near her plate, and rotated her left wrist so she could study the flat surgical scar, thinking hard. Her heart was beating in her ears. “You know I don’t cook. And I never will.”
“Oh, well, then you absolutely better marry me. I’m a great cook.” He dipped his chin knowingly. “Not a lot of other men would put up with that from their wives.”
There was her bubble of fury again. “What’s wrong with you?” she said. She stood up from the table and raised her voice. “Why do you keep chasing me when you know I don’t want you? I could never respect a man like that. It’s pathetic.” She took two steps toward the door, then turned around and made herself shout, “That’s right, I said you were pathetic!” Let the other diners think she was a noisy wop. She didn’t care. Let Carmelo think she was a noisy wop. Let him focus on that.
Carmelo stood, too, but she didn’t let him get a word in. “You wanta wife who would never respect you?” she shrieked. “You like being made a fool of?”
His face had flushed pink. “All right, Stella. Let’s go.”
“Pathetic,” she said again. A horrible feeling was settling in her gut. The waitress was coming toward them, a broom clutched in one hand. She would have had no idea what the shouting was about, Stella realized.
“Come on.” Carmelo gestured toward the door, and she walked ahead of him out onto the street. She felt sick. This was so undignified. She tried to steel herself. It would all be worth it if he would leave her alone.
“I want to go home,” she told him. “I don’t feel well.”
He walked her to his car and opened the door to the passenger side. His face was still bright red as he got into the driver’s seat. Was he mad? Embarrassed?
They drove back to Bedford Street in silence. He got out of the car to let her out, and then escorted her up the steps. Assunta scurried to meet Stella in the foyer. “What’s the matter? Weren’t you supposed to go to the movies?”
“Stella’s not feeling well,” Carmelo said. He didn’t step into the house, just stood on the doormat.
