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Now he looked at her, now that she was threatening something he loved. His eyes, a lighter whiskey brown like his father’s, narrowed. “I didn’t punch Lenny because I listen to boxing matches on the radio. I punched him because he called me and Rosa dirty dagos.”
Despite herself, Martina flinched, glancing at the bedroom door where Rosa had likely buried herself in a pillow. That word again. Spaniards, Portuguese, and especially Italians, all tarred with the same slur. Marked as something different, distasteful, un-American.
She’d heard it growing up in Boston, and now at the foundry—whispered behind her back and shouted after her, hoping to get a reaction more dramatic than the blush of heat that burned from her cheeks all the way to her core.
But she never gave it to them. Just kept walking, holding her head high. Praying in the name of the Blessed Mother that her son and daughter would live in a different, gentler world when the fighting stopped.
“It doesn’t matter what the boy said. You shouldn’t have hit him.”
Gio opened his mouth to protest, but she would not be interrupted, not again. “You will apologize to him. And there will be no radio for the rest of the month.”
“But, Mamma, Da said I have to protect the family while he’s gone.”
Though she didn’t remember that exchange, it was like something Patrick would say, in one of the rare moments when he’d made an attempt at being a father. She clucked her tongue. “You want to listen to the fights? Then stop fighting. It’s your choice.”
Soon, Ginny Atkins would come to pick her up, and she’d be gone, headed to Bristol-Banks for another swing shift. Gio would be free to take out his radio and tune the dial to anything he wanted.
“Do you promise?” she pressed.
He met her stern eyes with his swollen one. “Yes, Mamma.”
That was good. Gio hated liars too, proof that she’d done at least one thing right as a mother.
That must be why, when she urged him not to fight anymore, he said only, “I’ll try.”
five
AVIS
APRIL 8
By the time Russell came home, the mashed potatoes were cold and crusty, the meatloaf pocked with milky-white pools of hardened fat. Still, Avis left the platter on the dining room table centered atop a pinwheel doily.
The moment she heard a car door shut, she stood and peeked out the window.
Sure enough, Russell was waving to Herb, grinning from the driver’s seat. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily. She was all for saving gas for the war effort, but whyever her husband had decided to carpool with Herb Beale was beyond her. The man talked too loudly and couldn’t tell when the person across from him had lost interest in his monologue on electric wiring or the intricacies of fishing lures. Which, for her, was always almost instantly.
Avis checked herself in the mirror that hung in the living room before opening the door. “Hello, Russell.”
“Hello, dear.”
She accepted his peck on the cheek, which he doled out like afinethat followed aHow are you?
No need to be petty and say,“You’re late,”with hands on her hips. He had to know it was quarter past seven, when Derby Central Bank and Loan closed at five.
She watched his eyes roam over her shoulder and land on the dining room table, set neatly for two, all in the hour between the end of her shift at the library and the time he was supposed to arrive home.
In the silence, waiting for his apology, she heard the grandfather clock ticking away the seconds.
“You should have eaten without me.”
What he really meant was“You shouldn’t make me feel guilty.”
“I hadn’t realized how late you’d be.”
He’d already earned three demerits on the marriage evaluation scale created by Dr. GeorgeW. Crane, assuming he hadn’t been drinking or flirting with other women, which would add an additional six.
One point for not calling to let her know he would be late from work. One point for missing dinner. One point for...
