WORLD'S SHORTEST DISCLAIMER:  Not mine.  Don't sue.

Summary:  Mrs. Vecchio tells a story.  There has been no attempt made
to write in dialect. 

This is rated PG, for the F-word, and the mention of violence and alcohol
abuse. 

All comments, questions, otters and fuzzy huskies go to:
kcabou@hotmail.com
Thank you kindly! 

My Name Is Antonia

by Kiki Cabou

My name is Antonia.  Antonia Francesca Bonaducci.  But I much prefer
to be called "mama," or, as that nice Mountie calls me, "ma'am."  This
is fortunate, because with that option, he rarely calls me what everyone
else does:  Mrs. Vecchio.  I hate that name, because it is not me.  I
am a Vecchio by marriage only. 

I came to America when I was 18, with nothing but my parents' blessings
and gentle scolding warnings and a bundle of clothes on my back.  I was
to live with my Uncle Pietro, in a place I had never seen --- New York
City.  When I got off the boat, the first thing I noticed was the smell.
The docks stank of day-old fish.  Nothing smelled like my home.  The
salty air whipped and chapped my face, and my long black hair (yes, I
had that once,) fell in front of my eyes.  I had to stop, close my eyes,
and remember the smells of sun-dried tomatoes, fresh garlic, and good
basil.	I had to think to remember what my mother's kitchen looked like,
so that I could replicate it here.  My mother had cried the night before
I left and warned me that America would make no effort to give me a home
--- I would have to make one.  My Uncle Pietro waved at me, and I waved
back as I stepped off the boat.  But the instant my feet touched the
shore, I was different.  Changed.  American. 

Pietro, bless his heart, got me a job working at a department store.
I was the silent one who put the ladies' clothes into bags and handed
them their purchases, always watching, listening, trying to pick up
English.
The night school class I was taking wasn't much of a help --- I only
learned to say useless things, like "It is a pencil."  But on the job,
my friend Benedicta, who knew English well, taught me some very valuable
things.  She said, "Antonia, when a man starts making eyes at you and
saying rude things and you don't like him, here's what you say."  She
whispered it in my ear, and then had me repeat, "Fuck off," over and
over again until she was satisfied.  As it turned out, I had many
opportunities
to say that.  She watched out for me like an older sister, teaching me
more English than I could have learned in night school.  

I was content to work in the store by day and come home and cook for
my uncle at night.  Often I brought Benedicta home and we would cook
together. She came from Sicily and I was from Rome.  We melded our
differences,
shared good recipes and good wine and good laughs.  I still write to
her. 

Anyway, a few doors down from us in the tenement was a respectable family
called Vecchio.  My uncle knew Mr. Vecchio and his wife, and their son,
Gianni.  Their business was booming, and soon they would be moving out,
to a big apartment in Manhattan.  Everybody in the tenement said Gianni
was "a nice boy."  Over and over.  To me.  Especially my uncle. 
Eventually,
he arranged for me to meet with this Gianni Vecchio.  I knew what he
was plotting, but I also knew that I didn't want it.  I didn't want to
talk to Gianni.  Every time we saw each other in the hallway, he would
eye my breasts, but not say a word.  I wanted to say "Fuck off," like
I'd practiced, but it didn't seem right, since he wasn't actually speaking
to me. 

So I met him.  He liked me, and talked a lot about I don't even know
what, and we went out often.  But Benedicta had gotten this crazy, stupid
dream into my head about publishing a cookbook together, so I really
wanted to use the time to write down our recipes.  Gianni hogged me,
though.  

After a year of dating him, I was still unhappy.  I hadn't "grown to
love him," like Uncle Pietro had assured me I would.  Uncle Pietro wanted
me to go with Gianni to Manhattan.  As his wife.  He said, "Cara, it
will be so good for you!  Think about it!  Married to a citizen.  This
makes YOU a citizen.  You will have such a good life!  Better than I
can give you.  I will write your parents.  You will marry him if he asks,
yes?" 

"Yes, uncle.  Of course, yes."	This was 1950's New York.  Good Italian
girls did not say "no." 

Gianni proposed and I accepted.  I cried loud and long the day of my
wedding.  Benedicta, who had just gotten married to a good man, Arturo
Versace, comforted me and tried to tell me I would be all right.  But
the tears running down her face led me to believe otherwise. 

We were married, and I moved to Manhattan with Gianni and his mother
and father.  We rented an apartment just below them.  Gianni got his
first job in New York, and we were rich.  It was amazing.  Now instead
of putting other ladies clothes in bags down at the department stores,
I was making purchases myself.	I had such a wonderful time.  But the
most incredible part of that period was Gianni.  Something wonderful
happened.  He seemed to change.  He became kind and gentle, not so loud
and self-absorbed when we were alone.  I finally began to love him. 

That's when we moved to Chicago.  Gianni explained that he'd gotten a
better job there working as a stockbroker, I think.  To tell the truth,
I really don't know what he did when he was out!  We found a nice
neighborhood
and put a ... what is it?  A down-something on a house.  It was so
beautiful,
on a tree-lined street, with a big kitchen.  I could make a proper meal
in here, I knew it.  I was 20 years old, married, with my life ahead
of me, and we were happy for six years. 

Until Gianni lost his job.  He said he'd been laid off, and I tried to
help, comforting him, making my special meatballs... but nothing cheered
him up.  Finally, I called his office to complain.  I had to do something.
My husband was getting sick, with a disease that no one could see. 
Nothing
was really happening, but his face was always scrunched up like his
insides
were rotting away.  He was grumpy all the time.  

When the company finally admitted to me that they'd fired him because
he'd been bad-tempered around the office, I confronted my husband and
received a smack in the face for it.  I was shocked.  He'd never hit
me before.  I don't care where you come from --- a man does not hit his
woman.	The sting faded, but the other pain did not, and I yelled at
him from the foot of the staircase to go find himself another job and
quickly, before I left him.  I started to cry and ran into our bedroom
and locked the door. 

Over the next few months, he managed to find work, part-time in offices,
while I stayed home and took care of the house.  I always got the nagging
feeling that those people from his office hadn't told me the whole truth
about why they'd fired him, but I let it go.  At least he was bringing
in a steady paycheck.  

But then, after I thought he'd come back to his normal self, something
happened.  He started staying out later and later, coming home wobbling,
with his eyes red rimmed and sometimes not coming home at all.	It was
scary to be alone in that big house all by myself.  The other women who
I knew in the neighborhood started commenting that perhaps I wasn't
satisfying
him.  I was ready to explode when I heard that. 

I didn't know what to do, so I talked to our priest, but he didn't know
why my husband was behaving so badly.  I told him that all last week,
Gianni had come home close to one in the morning, smelling like cheap
beer.  Now you would think that any Italian man with a brain who was
going to get drunk would have more sense than to do it on cheap beer,
but not Gianni.  Whatever was at hand was good enough for him, the pig.

Father Mario told me to have faith and the crisis would pass.  So I did.
Praying more seemed to help.  At least it made me feel better!	Then
the problem solved itself, or so I thought.  I got pregnant.  I was happy
that I would be a mother, and besides --- nothing like a baby to keep
its father home. 

But I picked a bad time to tell Gianni the news, because he was drunk
again and instead of saying something good, like "That's wonderful! 
We'll build the baby a new room," he slurred, "Congratulations, you
whore,"
and accused me of having the child with another man.  Then he hit me
again.	The third time in a week.  I still thank God that he did not
hit me in the stomach and hurt my beautiful Maria, who was occupying
that space at the time. He stayed away a lot after that, but when he
was home, he managed to be so nice that he charmed me into bed and got
me pregnant two more times before I had a terrible bellyache and my friend
across the street, Mrs. Rosa, had to take me to the hospital.  The doctors
all wore funny green masks, and looked down over me.  Suddenly I fell
asleep, and they told me when I woke up that they'd had to take out my
uterus.  I couldn't have any more children.  This, unbeknownst to them,
was fine with me.  I had all I could handle. 

Gianni was mostly gone from my life, only coming home to sleep
occasionally.
He drank an awful lot, and always came home smelling like alcohol.  I
knew what he was doing in the evenings, down at his stupid club, but
I didn't care.	Whenever I would send my son Raimondo for him, I would
pretend that I didn't know what was going on, and that seemed to make
him more comfortable with it.  It gave him the feeling he was protecting
me, I think.  I was glad to make my son happy.	And I didn't give a damn
what his father did, so long as he stayed away from my beautiful children.
They have been my saving grace.  Maria, Raimondo, and Francesca (in that
order), I will tell you right now, are the best a mother could ask for.

Now that I've gotten older, (I think I've gone fat and gray, but no one
will agree with me), Francesca and Maria give me a lot of help around
the house.  Maria is married, and Tony is good to her, even though he
isn't that helpful.  She has children of her own, so I help with them.
I taught Francesca how to cook my recipes AND Benedicta's, so she helps
me cook all the time.  And Raimondo... well, he is a good son, and a
good man.  He's doing well as "man of the house," but I still get worried
sick every time he's late home from work.  He's a police officer, you
know.  A detective.  But he takes care of his family AND an entire city,
so I can't complain.  I remember my husband wanted to name him Gianni,
after himself, and I recall shouting, at the top of my voice, "NO!" 
I named him after my grandfather, who was a bank guard in Rome many years
ago.  Also a very good man.  I think most of him rubbed off on my son.

And now Ray comes home all the time with his Mountie friend.  Benton
is so nice ... I wish I could get him to call me mama, or something,
but he's so shy!  Hardly opens his mouth when he joins us for dinner.
I think it's silly for such a strong man to be so quiet.  Such a good
man, though.  And handsome!  And I know my Francesca is madly in love
with him but I also know she doesn't have a chance with him, because
she is so forward and scares him stiff, no matter how often I scold her
for it.  She doesn't think I know anything about attracting men, but
I do...  I know that subtlety can often be the key.  But does she listen
to me?	No.  *sigh*  Always so stubborn.  But then again, if it's a
Mountie
Frannie wants, there has been another one, with freckles and lightish
hair, who seems to like her very much.	I admit, I like him, too ---
he's friendly, if a little stupid, but good in the kitchen, and he's
not so shy.  Actually came to the house asking for her a few times, so
who knows?  I have been surrounded by my children, watching them grow
up every day, and it has been a blessing.  There is joy in every nook
and cranny of my life.	Not to sound clichd, but I feel like my soul
is a ravioli --- a tough skin stuffed so full of good things that it
might burst from happiness. 

But even though he is seven years gone, Gianni has still managed to haunt
me one last time.  The company mailed me a letter a week ago with the
truth of why he got fired so many years ago: he was embezzling money
from them.  That was how we could afford this house.  The company had
decided to let the matter go, for some reason, but after I read the letter
I shook uncontrollably and cried at the mention of his name and felt
as if we'd stolen our home, until I told Raimondo.  He held me and assured
me everything Gianni had bought with someone else's money had just been
paid for.  Benton reassured me, too.  It felt good to have both of their
arms around me, and I cried more than I'd cried in years.  They'd both
known about the embezzling and had used parts of their salaries over
the last few years to pay it off.  I thank God every day for a son who
is nothing like his father, and who has enough sense to have a friend
like Benton.  I love them both to pieces. 

But when things come in the mail for me, I don't read the name anymore.
I don't want to look at that word, because now that Gianni is gone for
good, I know who I am, and who I am not.  I am a woman.  I am a mother.
And I am finally free.	So you can call me "mama," or "ma'am."	But please
don't call me Mrs. Vecchio. 

Fin
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